


Sins Of The Past

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2469863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Milady's 'death', Athos remained at La Fère, becoming something of a recluse and dismissing his servants. A couple of those closest to him, however, refuse to leave his side, but find they cannot run the estate alone and look for a little extra help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure I know what I've let myself in for, but once the idea came to me (in the middle of the night, perhaps after watching _Commodities_ a few too many times!) I just had to give it life.

His hand frozen in the act of reaching out toward the door, Porthos wavered helplessly, struck by a surge of doubt. He didn’t belong in a place like this, should at least have gone in search of a servants’ entrance rather than walking up to the grand front door, an uninvited guest.

Perhaps Charon had been right; he had absolutely no chance of being accepted here and should never have come, should have searched instead for employment more suited to someone of his status. But there was no sense in quitting before he’d even started. It was not in his nature to baulk at a challenge.

And he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to prove Charon wrong and forge a more respectable life for himself beyond the streets of the Court of Miracles.

He could do this.

Squaring his shoulders, Porthos raised his hand once more, but before he had even grasped the brass knocker the door swung open, leaving Porthos gaping like a fool under the gaze of the man in the doorway.

Shorter than Porthos but with a strength of presence not easily ignored, the man’s incongruously friendly smile put Porthos instantly at ease. He had been expecting to be received by someone older, more severe – a butler, perhaps, or at least a footman – not a young, handsome man with neatly trimmed moustache and beard but oddly casual attire. So surprised was he that Porthos didn’t realise he had been staring mutely for several minutes until the man cocked his head to one side and raised a curious eyebrow.

“Can I help you? Or were you just admiring the door?”

Porthos gave himself a mental shake and rallied, replying with a confidence he didn’t truly feel. “I heard you had a vacancy.”

“We do.” The smile widened. “I am Aramis, valet to le Comte, although he would hasten to disagree on that point.” He opened the door wider, bidding Porthos enter with a flamboyant wave of an arm. “Please come in, Monsieur…”

“Porthos du Vallon,” Porthos supplied as he stepped across the threshold and waited for Aramis to close the door, trying not to look too astonished by the large entrance hall.

Aramis had no qualms about leading him through the main house, but the succession of high-ceilinged, well-furnished rooms they passed through only served to make Porthos feel more and more out of place. It was only a combination of his own determination and Aramis’s amiable, welcoming nature that kept Porthos from bolting back out that imposing front door. He had been convinced his arrival would be treated with some measure of suspicion, and it was a pleasant surprise to be greeted as an equal – almost disconcertingly so.

When they at last reached the kitchen, Porthos found himself on the receiving end of another friendly smile, this one belonging to a young woman. She was kneading a large lump of dough, her sleeves rolled up, flour coating her arms right up to the elbows. There was a smudge of it on her cheek, a blemish that somehow accentuated her attractive features.

“You have arrived just in time, Porthos du Vallon,” Aramis declared as he peered over the woman’s shoulder. “It seems we are to be treated to freshly baked bread.”

Ushering Aramis out of her way with a playful swat to his arm that left a white, powdery handprint, the woman turned back to their unexpected guest.

“We don’t often receive visitors.” She didn’t sound displeased about the one standing before her now. Before Porthos could stammer something approximating an introduction, Aramis leapt to his rescue.

“Constance, this is Porthos,” he announced, teeth flashing in a grin. “He is to be our new groundskeeper.”

Porthos blinked. Aramis made it sound like he had already been given the position. He had been expecting questions, requests for references he would have been unable to provide. Surely it couldn’t be this easy?

His fears were confirmed when Constance spoke again. “So, Porthos, do you have much experience tending the grounds of an estate?”

It was almost natural to lie, to invent a previous job at which he had excelled, but he was unable to do so, not to these people. “No,” he admitted glumly. “Not as such. But I’m a quick learner, and I’m good with my hands.”

Constance suppressed a smirk. “I’ll bet you are.”

Aramis didn’t even attempt to hide his own amusement and treated Porthos to another broad grin as he addressed Constance.

“What do you think?”

“I think he’ll be perfect.”

Bewildered, Porthos foundered for a moment, gaze darting between Constance and Aramis. “So…I got the job?”

“Yes,” Aramis confirmed. “Welcome to La Fère.”

Porthos was at a loss for what to say. He hadn’t imagined he would actually get this far. “Uh…thank you?”

“Right!” Aramis clapped Porthos on the shoulder, beaming. “Now that’s settled, allow me to give you the tour.”

As Porthos was led around the estate, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it seemed too quiet. He could almost have put it down to this peaceful countryside location, so far removed from the bustle he was accustomed to at the Court, but there was more to it than a mere change of setting. A house this large would require a small army of servants, and he had seen no sign of the owners, either. He had envisaged encountering a large family of demanding nobles.

His curiosity finally got the better of him as they reentered the silent house.

“Where are the rest of the servants?”

“There are none.”

“Huh?” Porthos couldn’t disguise his shock. “None?”

“Constance does what she can to keep the house in order, and I take care of the estate’s affairs. Everybody else…well, they were all dismissed.”

Porthos was unable to imagine why, wasn’t familiar enough with households like this one to even make a guess. “And the master of the house? His family?”

The smile that had been present on Aramis’s face since he had first greeted Porthos dimmed. He lowered his eyes, but not before Porthos saw a cloud of sorrow pass across them.

“There is just le Comte now, and he tends to keep himself to himself.”

Aramis fell silent and Porthos was loath to pry; there was a story there, an explanation for the bizarre circumstances at La Fère, but it wasn’t his place to enquire, intrude. If Aramis had felt it pertinent, he would have divulged the information, and although Porthos hated to see the man assailed by such obvious sadness, he would afford him his privacy.

Scrubbing a hand through his mop of dark hair, Aramis visibly forced the bout of melancholy away and offered Porthos an apologetic smile.

“Perhaps I should introduce you,” Aramis said, and as soon as Porthos realised he meant to take him to meet le Comte himself, his earlier doubt came flooding back. Surely the moment the nobleman set eyes on him, he would order Porthos to be sent away.

While he was still desperately trying to think up some excuse, a reason to spare himself the introduction until a later date, he found himself stood not before a man but rather a wall hung with a series of portraits. Aramis gestured to one in particular, on the end of the row.

“Le Comte de la Fère.”

The gentleman depicted on the canvas was far younger than Porthos had imagined he would be, barely older than himself if he were to make a guess. Despite the vitality of youth, however, he also possessed an air of haughty aloofness that was not at all unexpected. But perhaps Porthos was merely projecting his pre-existing expectations; didn’t all such portraits lend their subjects an air of disdain? If anyone knew the injustice of making premature judgments about a person, it was Porthos. And the longer he looked, the more he thought what could be construed as a coldness in the eyes might in fact be integrity, honour.

Aware he had been staring at the painting for rather longer than was absolutely necessary, he tore his gaze away and glanced over the other portraits on the wall. The one beside le Comte’s was of a younger man who shared enough of a likeness to the man to reveal him as a relative, but it was another portrait that held more intrigue even than that. It was clearly that of a lady, her fine dress visible, but her face obscured by a rent in the canvas.

“What happened?”

Porthos immediately regretted his question when he caught the expression on Aramis’s face. There was every chance the damage had been caused by accident, but the distant look in Aramis’s eyes suggested otherwise, and that he maybe believed Porthos to be asking about more than just the tear to the painting.

“I expect you’ll find out before long, but it is not my place to tell you.”

“Fair enough.” A man should be granted his privacy, and it was no real business of Porthos’s.

“Come on,” Aramis said, dragging his gaze from the portrait and brightening again. “I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.


	2. Chapter 2

A full week passed before Porthos set eyes on le Comte de la Fère in person, and then it was only at a distance.

He had quickly come to realise that his having absolutely no idea what being a groundskeeper actually entailed mattered little to Aramis and Constance. All they really needed was the help he could provide with whatever jobs arose, and those were predominantly of a physical nature and required no specialist knowledge, nothing that he couldn’t figure out for himself through a little trial and error.

Tasked with clearing out a collection of old and damaged furniture, Porthos had been in the process of heaping it all into a pile with a view to setting a bonfire when he had come across a chair that looked salvageable. By no means a carpenter, he nevertheless decided to attempt a repair; one broken leg was no reason to discard an otherwise perfectly serviceable, and obviously expensive, chair.

It being a clear, fine day, Porthos took the chair and a selection of tools out onto the lawn and set about doing his best to mend the leg. Destroying things was easy – he had always been good at that – but there was a certain satisfaction to be had from putting them back together, fixing them. Both had proven useful skills to possess growing up on the streets, and Porthos was determined he should put them to good use here, too.

So engrossed was he in his work that it took him a while to realise he was being observed. Something – that innate sense that was ever alert to the presence of eyes upon you – made him lift his head and look up at the array of windows that adorned La Fère. The sudden glare of reflected sunlight had him squinting until a cloud passed overhead, revealing the unmistakable shape of a figure stood at one of the upper windows.

He thought at first that it must be Aramis, but while there was a similarity in height and build, he had come to know the valet well enough that he could recognise that the man at the window was somebody else. Excluding Aramis and himself, there was only one other male resident of La Fère, and that meant he was looking at le Comte himself. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to see the man in his own house, but the distance and the sheen of the glass gave him an almost ephemeral quality. Had he been prone to flights of fancy, Porthos might have thought the figure a phantom, a feeling exacerbated by le Comte’s proclivity for keeping himself apart from the rest of the household, as if intentionally seeking to deny his own physical presence.

Porthos couldn’t tear his gaze away, as transfixed now as he had been by the man’s portrait. Catching himself, and not wanting to appear rude, he raised a hand in acknowledgment and greeting; no man should be allowed to fade into obscurity, whatever his reasons for desiring to. But perhaps in doing so he crossed some unspoken boundary because in the next instant the figure was gone, disappeared from sight like the spectre Porthos had almost believed him to be.

Fighting off a sudden urge to head in search of his reclusive master, Porthos returned to his work, attempting to concentrate on the task of securely reattaching the chair’s leg. As the afternoon wore on, he stole several more glances up at the window, but the man never reappeared.

In the following days, Porthos was kept busy enough that he might have forgotten his fleeting glimpse of the seclusive comte were it not for the way the sight of him stood still and silent at the window seemed indelibly marked upon his memory. He almost mentioned it to Aramis, but there was really little to report beyond the way he seemed unable to shrug off the memory of that brief sighting. It was difficult enough to reconcile in his own mind; attempting to express it aloud would be impossible.

His second encounter with le Comte was just as unexpected, and just as peculiar. Weary after a day spent cleaning the stables and repairing one of the doors he found to be hanging loosely from its hinges, Porthos returned to the house rather later than usual. He was beginning to grow accustomed to the quiet, although it still left him uneasy. Consequently, he had taken to spending most of his free time in the kitchen where he and Constance could keep each other company, often joined by Aramis too.

Constance, however, did not stay at the house on a full-time basis, for she was married and lived with her husband in the city. She had never expressly said so, but Porthos got the impression she preferred the time she spent at La Fère with Aramis and himself, if the downcast look in her eyes every time she bade them goodbye at the end of the week was any indication.

On this particular night, Constance was present in the house, but given the late hour, Porthos expected everyone would already be sleeping. He was, therefore, instantly alert when the still silence of the house was shattered by the sound of smashing glass echoing up from the wine cellar.

Fearing intruders had found their way into the house, and fully prepared to confront them, he cautiously descended the stone steps, his way lit by a single candle held out before him. He was loath to announce his presence with a light, but stumbling around in the dark would hinder any chance he had at a stealthy approach.

What he discovered, however, revealed in the flickering light of his candle, was not an opportunistic thief, but le Comte de la Fère, scowling at the puddle of wine spreading around his boots on the flagstone floor. Identifiable by the likeness Porthos had seen in the portrait, in the flesh the man looked significantly more dishevelled, his hair falling unchecked into his eyes, his clothing rumpled, his beard ungroomed. And perhaps it was the combined effect of the gloomy cellar and dim candlelight, but his skin also had a pale, unhealthy pallor, as if he had not set foot outside for months.

When he realised he was not alone, the man’s eyes, almost completely concealed by shadow, narrowed.

“Who are you?”

The demand was delivered in a smooth, aristocratic voice that lent it a supercilious tone whether or not that was the intention. His displeasure, however, was almost palpable in the air between them.

“Porthos du Vallon. Your new groundskeeper.”

The response was a growl. “I told Aramis I do not want a groundskeeper.”

Porthos winced, hoping that he hadn’t just gotten Aramis into trouble. He had assumed Aramis would have informed le Comte that he had hired someone new, but perhaps he had intended to keep it a secret. Porthos couldn’t fathom why, however opposed the master of the house was to taking on any more servants, not when he would surely notice the presence of somebody new, even with his habit of sequestering himself from the world around him. Porthos felt the need to defend Aramis’s choice; the man had shown him nothing but kindness since he had arrived. “He seems to think you need one.”

“That is not Aramis’s decision to make.”

That was a little unfair in Porthos’s opinion. While this household might have been under the command of le Comte, it was Aramis whose shoulders it fell upon to keep the place running. But there was something in the way the man’s shoulders slumped with wretched misery that made Porthos want to grab him in a tight embrace.

He didn’t need to be better acquainted with le Comte, however, to know such an action would likely be unwelcome. Instead, he stood there in the gloom of the cellar, watching impotently as the man turned back to the rack of wine and reached to pull out another bottle. As he did so, a patch of dark wetness on his palm caught the light of the candle and gleamed a dull crimson.

“You’re hurt.” He must have cut himself when the bottle smashed, but the way he held his hand up before his eyes and stared uncomprehendingly at the blood smeared across his palm suggested he hadn’t even noticed. Porthos wondered just how much wine he had already drunk. “Let me help you clean that up.”

Clasping his hand into a tight fist around the wound, le Comte directed an angry snarl at Porthos. “I do not require your assistance!” he snapped, but, in the next instant, the fight seemed to abandon him. His head dropped, and when he spoke again it was in a quiet, defeated voice. “Just go.” It was almost a plea. “Leave me.”

Unwilling to sever whatever tenuous shred of welcome still tethered him to La Fère, Porthos yielded. “As you wish.”

Still, he hesitated; he should have taken umbrage at the brusque way he was dismissed, but he just couldn’t bring himself to leave this forlorn figure here, alone, lost in his wine-fuelled melancholy. But with his presence obviously unwelcome, there was little else he could do but climb back out of the cellar with an oddly heavy heart.

Whether it was a sense of duty or an instinct less definable, something prevented Porthos continuing to his room until he knew the man had come to no real harm. He waited in the dark of the kitchen, and only when he heard le Comte ascend from the cellar and make for the main stairs did he allow himself to head to his own bed.


	3. Chapter 3

“I bumped into Monsieur le Comte last night.”

“You did?” Aramis sounded surprised.

“Yeah. In the wine cellar.”

“Ah.” That piece of news seemed to come as much less of a shock.

Constance placed another bowl on the table as Porthos sank into the seat opposite Aramis. He had entered the kitchen that morning to find both Constance and Aramis already there, Constance just finishing preparations for breakfast. The two men waited for Constance to join them before they began eating.

“I’m guessin’ that’s not a rare thing.” If Aramis’s reaction was any indication, finding their master rummaging through La Fère’s store of wine must be a common occurrence.

“Unfortunately, no,” the valet confirmed. He stared into his bowl as if its contents had suddenly become unappetizing, which Porthos already knew to be impossible when Constance was the one doing the cooking. “He often uses wine as his means of escape.”

“Escape from what?”

Aramis sighed, and the downhearted look on his face told Porthos that le Comte was not merely a master to him, but a friend he cared deeply for. “A past that haunts him.”

Ah, another allusion to the event that precipitated the upheaval at La Fère. It was obviously something that had had a devastating effect on le Comte. A noble birth did not safeguard a man from misery, and there were many and varied ways to face and survive such hardships, but it was difficult to imagine what could have led le Comte to regularly seek oblivion in a bottle. Porthos enjoyed a drink as much as the next man, but drinking to excess so frequently surely achieved nothing but a permanently sore head and unsettled stomach.

“How much had he drunk?” Aramis asked, clearly dreading the answer.

“Not sure,” Porthos confessed. “Enough that he didn’t realise he had cut himself on some broken glass.” He didn’t mention that it had been le Comte himself who had dropped the bottle. He didn’t need to.

Aramis winced and got to his feet, breakfast forgotten. “I will go and see that he is alright.”

That was what Porthos had wanted to do, and now he regretted not being a little more persistent. When Aramis had gone, Porthos looked helplessly to Constance.

“He wouldn’t let me help him.” Should he have insisted? It was not a servant’s place to disregard the orders of their master – Porthos knew that much – but now that he knew this self-destructive behaviour was typical, he wished he had just ignored propriety.

“He is the same with everyone,” Constance assured him.

“I don’t think he even wants me here.”

Constance placed her hand over his. “Don’t take it personally. It is not _you_ he disapproves of,” she insisted gently, offering him a rueful smile. “Beneath it all he is a good man, but he has been so dreadfully hurt and is struggling to find his way back from the edge of despair.”

Porthos had only just met the man, and already he hated seeing him suffer so. There had to be some way he could help restore this man to his former self. “What c’n I do?”

“Have patience.” Constance gave his hand a squeeze. “And don’t let him push you away.”

* * * *

That day, Porthos was kept busy cutting dead branches from trees. He suspected it was more of a cosmetic concern than anything else; an estate such as this should maintain a healthy, attractive façade as a statement of wealth. Probably, nobody currently living at La Fère honestly cared much about the image the grounds conveyed, but he was being paid to look after them and was adamant he would do a good job.

Besides, the trees would undoubtedly appreciate the care and attention.

The image of the broken man he had met in the cellar the night before remained with Porthos as he worked. He tried to immerse himself in the physical labour as a distraction but it seemed his mind had other ideas. He had expected to dislike the man who was to be his master, but although le Comte had given him no reason not to, he felt only a deep-rooted sympathy and an inexplicable desire to assuage the pain of whatever tormented him.

It was beginning to grow dark by the time Porthos decided to call it a day, and he was more than ready to head to his bed. He suspected his exhaustion was a result of more than just the exertion, and resigned himself to a restless night.

Rounding the corner of the house, Porthos stopped abruptly, almost tripping over his own feet as he stopped himself from running headlong into someone coming the other way.

“Sorry,” Porthos mumbled, bracing himself for a tongue-lashing as he recognised the man he had almost crashed into as none other than le Comte de la Fère. He appeared far more sober than the previous night, and slightly less unkempt, with a bandage neatly wrapped around his hand – most likely Aramis’s doing. Despite all this, he still didn’t seem particularly pleased to see Porthos again.

“Do you make a habit of wandering around my property at night?”

Before he could check himself, Porthos leapt to his own defence. “As these are the grounds of your property, and I am your groundskeeper, I reckon I’m entitled to be here.”

In the evening gloom, Porthos couldn’t be sure if it was irritation or amusement that flickered across le Comte’s features. Hoping for the latter but suspecting the former, Porthos bit his tongue, but rather than the expected reprimand he instead received an observation.

“This is your first position within a household.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. Did Aramis tell you, or is it just that obvious? I mean, I didn’t lie or anythin’…”

“Aramis told me nothing as he knew I would not approve. It is your inability to hold your tongue that gives you away.”

Porthos bristled. “I won’t apologise for who I am.”

“Nor would I want you to. But whatever made you take a position here?”

That was a fair enough question. People with a background such as his rarely volunteered themselves into servitude, but Porthos instinctively remained on the defensive. He had spent years being looked down upon, and wouldn’t tolerate being belittled. “I gotta take what I c’n get. People ain’t exactly clamberin’ over each other to offer someone like me a job. We aren’t all handed opportunities on a silver platter.”

Le Comte frowned. “It is not always the blessing you seem to believe it to be,” he muttered grimly.

Porthos gave a dismissive snort. “It’s gotta beat havin’ to scavenge and steal just to live.”

“Of course.” The man bowed his head. Porthos could almost believe it a gesture of contrition, but why should someone of le Comte’s status ever feel remorse for their ill treatment of a man from the Courts? “I never meant to imply otherwise. Forgive me.”

Porthos had previously vowed not to make hasty judgments, but now he feared he might be guilty of projecting an erroneous view of the upper classes upon this man, skewed by his years living amongst those who believed them irredeemably arrogant. His fatigue might be a reason, but it was no excuse.

Before he could apologise for taking offence where none had been intended, le Comte had turned away and was heading back inside the house. Cursing his own prickly impudence, Porthos mentally kicked himself. Constance had advised him to show some patience, and he had forgotten that the instant he thought he was being disparaged.

Next time he found himself face-to-face with his strange, enigmatic master, he pledged to keep his temper.


	4. Chapter 4

Movement in the doorway caught Porthos’s attention and he looked up from his supper to find le Comte de la Fère lingering at the entrance to the kitchen. Pale green eyes darted around the room before finally alighting upon Porthos. Expression otherwise inscrutable, that flitting gaze was the only outward sign of what Porthos suspected was a troubled internal agitation.

“Where is Aramis?”

Despite his immediate concern for the man, Porthos couldn’t help his soft snort of amusement. “He said somethin’ about an arrangement with a lady friend of his. He travelled into Paris with Constance.”

“Oh.” Le Comte closed his eyes, one hand reaching unconsciously for the locket that hung around his neck. As Porthos watched, he realised the hand was trembling, and all trace of merriment at Aramis’s shenanigans fled. This was clearly something more than a trivial enquiry into Aramis’s whereabouts.

Opening his eyes to find himself the object of Porthos’s scrutiny, le Comte quickly balled his hand into a fist and dropped it back down to his side. He couldn’t disguise the disquiet in his eyes quite so easily.

“Are you unwell?” For an instant, Porthos also wished Aramis were there. The valet had more experience with their master’s shifting temper and would have a better idea of how to approach him now. Porthos would just have to trust his instincts, and hope le Comte would accept his potentially clumsy attempt to help.

Le Comte shook his head in unconvincing denial, then answered with a candour that took Porthos by surprise. “No. I was looking for a distraction.” 

A distraction from what? Porthos recalled the image of the wretched figure in the wine cellar, still so vivid in his memory, and knew that, whatever it was that troubled the man, he couldn’t leave him to sink into that state again. Before he had chance to turn from the room, Porthos quickly declared, “Distractions I c’n do!”

Le Comte paused, his gaze returning to Porthos, and was there a trace of curiosity in his otherwise indifferent expression? Porthos picked up the pack of cards he and Aramis had been playing with the previous night and held them up for le Comte to see. “Do you play?”

As le Comte silently considered the question, Porthos grew increasingly convinced he was going to respond in the negative and decline his offer, but with a small incline of his head he gave an affirmative nod. Porthos shot him a grin that was partly relief, mostly delight. He jerked his head toward a stool, and as he began to shuffle the cards le Comte sank onto it.

“Have some’v that bread, if you want,” Porthos offered. “It’s good. Constance made it.”

“Thank you, no.” Le Comte seemed content to sit and wait while Porthos dealt him a hand of cards, lost in his own thoughts.

Porthos won the first game with ease, and then the second. He hadn’t even needed to employ any of the tricks he so often used to ensure victory. His opponent didn’t complain at his losses and spoke little until Porthos won for a third time.

“Where did you learn how to play?”

“Charon taught me.”

“Who is Charon?”

Porthos told him, and le Comte listened with an attentiveness that surprised him. He encouraged Porthos to talk about his past, and Porthos spoke freely about growing up in the Court of Miracles, with Charon and Flea the closest he had to a family, and found his genuine interest refreshing. More reticent with his own contribution, le Comte nevertheless shared a few memories of childhood adventures with his brother, whom he obviously cared deeply for, but his words were tainted by a trace of sadness. Remembering the portrait beside that of le Comte, Porthos now knew it must be that of Thomas – the younger brother – and asked where he was now. Le Comte would only say that he had died, and Porthos didn’t press the matter.

They played the next hand in a silence that, while not uncomfortable, was still a little strained. As he searched for the means to banish the tension once more, Porthos noticed that the bandage had been removed from le Comte’s hand as he reached out for a card. Asking after his well-being should be safe enough territory.

“How’s your hand?”

Le Comte turned his hand palm-up and stared at it for a moment, perhaps recalling his meeting with Porthos that night in the cellar, or whatever hazy memory remained of it. Porthos could see the jagged pink line of healing skin that marred his flesh; Aramis had done a decent job of treating it, but there would likely be a small scar.

“There is no lasting damage,” le Comte reported and Porthos thought his cheeks coloured a little with what could only be shame. “I am sorry for my behaviour that night.”

Porthos gave a one-shouldered shrug that belied just how much the man’s miserable, morose state had truly affected him. “Don’t worry ’bout it. You were obviously…”

“Drunk, yes,” he admitted glumly, ignoring Porthos’s attempt at tact. “I am not proud of it.” He refused to meet Porthos’s gaze, staring instead at his hand of cards with such disproportionate intensity that Porthos began to think he was going to say nothing more. He was about to insist that his only concern had been for le Comte’s health when the man tossed his cards onto the tabletop and finally looked up.

“I also want to apologise for the other night.”

Porthos dismissed the apology with a quick wave of his hand. “I’ve ’eard worse.”

“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” He sounded sincerely contrite. “I have no issue with you. It is the very notion of having servants I am opposed to.”

“Bit odd for someone in your position, ain’t it?”

“I suppose it is, but having servants has always made me uncomfortable.”

Porthos had always believed, or perhaps had been led to believe, that the nobility took great pleasure in having those of lower status at their beck and call, as if they were somehow deserving of it purely by virtue of their birth and wealth. Although he had seen little to disabuse him of that notion in the past, this man was beginning to make him think he had been right when he had privately argued that there must be some honourable noblemen out there, just as not all beggars were thieves. It didn’t, however, explain why le Comte hadn’t ordered Porthos to leave La Fère.

“So why’d you let me stay?”

Again, le Comte paused, maybe as he asked the same question of himself. “Every man deserves a chance.”

“You mean you took pity on me?” There was no heat in Porthos’s words, just curiosity.

“No, not at all.” Spoken with emphatic vehemence. “I admire your spirit. Your courage and determination. That is why I allowed you to stay.”

And suddenly Porthos knew why Aramis had deemed him suitable for the position here despite his complete absence of experience; his lack of any of the attributes that typically made an adept and capable servant meant their master would be more likely to accept his presence at La Fère. By refusing to be unquestioningly subservient, he had avoided instilling that feeling of discomfort in le Comte.

Flea had always said his quick tongue would get him into trouble. Perhaps it had here achieved the very opposite.

“I’m sorry, too.” Le Comte wasn’t the only one who had been in the wrong, and Porthos wanted to make amends for losing his temper so easily. “I shouldn’t’a spoke to you like that.”

“It was quite understandable.” After a moment’s thought, le Comte offered his hand to Porthos across the table. “Let us agree to forgive and forget.”

Starting over was precisely what Porthos wanted. “Yeah, I c’n do that.” He clasped the proffered hand with a firm grip, and long, deft fingers wrapped themselves around his larger hand. Porthos’s smile was met with a courteous nod as trespasses were forgiven and their relationship began afresh.

Porthos gathered up the cards strewn across the table. “By my reckoning, you must owe me at least thirty livres,” he joked, smirking mischievously as he shuffled them back together ready to deal another hand. 

“Then perhaps I should quit while I am behind.” Le Comte slumped back in defeat and swept Porthos with an astute, assessing gaze that made Porthos’s skin tingle. “I am wondering whether you are blessed with luck or skill, or if it is something altogether more devious.”

Porthos pressed a hand to his breast, pretending to be affronted by the veiled implication. “Are you accusin’ me of somethin’?”

“Not at all.”

Le Comte suddenly rose from his seat and, without a word, left the room, leaving Porthos staring after him in confusion. Had he said something wrong? Just when it had seemed he was starting to form a tentative bond, he had gone and messed it all up again, and this time he didn’t even know what he had done. Annoyed with himself, and exasperated by his inability to befriend this perplexing man, Porthos growled in frustration and gathered up the cards. Just as he was about to rise to tidy away his plate and cup, le Comte returned and dropped a small leather purse onto the table in front of him.

Nonplussed by the man’s sudden reappearance, Porthos could only frown at the purse in incomprehension for a moment before he found his voice. “What’s this?”

“Thirty livres,” le Comte stated simply.

Porthos wondered at the meaning of this gesture. He hadn’t meant for le Comte to feel he owed him; they had been playing purely for fun. “You don’t need to—”

“It is not charity, Porthos. I always pay my debts.” His sincere tone brooked no arguments. Porthos decided it would be rude not to accept the gift it was obviously meant to be, even though he wanted no money from the man beyond what he earned. As le Comte stepped toward the door he added, “Thank you.”

Porthos had been only too glad to provide the distraction the man had been seeking, and his response was just as heartfelt. “It was my pleasure.”

“Yes, I imagine it was.”

The unexpectedly dry reference to the purse of coins, delivered with such deadpan irony, drew a bark of laughter and an unrepentant grin from Porthos.

“Goodnight, Porthos.”

“Goodnight, Monsieur.”

Le Comte stopped in the doorway and half turned back, catching Porthos’s eye. “Please, call me Athos.”

“G’night, Athos,” Porthos amended, his teeth flashing in a bright grin of pleasure at being granted the honour of calling the man by his name.

The corners of Athos’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, and then he was gone.

It was the first time Porthos had seen him smile, and it was a sight that instantly warmed his heart.


	5. Chapter 5

Shoving his arm as far up into the fireplace as he could reach, Porthos gave one more sharp prod with the fire iron and was rewarded by a cloud of soot and ash billowing out around him, engulfing him in a swirling, choking cloud.

In his surprise, Porthos made the mistake of inhaling, and the stinging burn at the back of his throat sent him instantly into a fit of coughing. He waved a hand vigorously around his head to disperse the fog of soot, and as the coughing subsided he blinked the grit from his eyes and opened them to find he had an audience.

Athos stood in the doorway of the salon, a tray in his hands and one eyebrow raised as he surveyed the state of the previously immaculate room.

“I, uh…” Porthos faltered, taking in the mess he was knelt amidst and grimacing guiltily. He had found some old bed sheets and placed them around the hearth to catch the worst of it, but the floor was now dusted with a liberal sprinkling of the contents of the chimney breast. “I cleared the blockage,” he said by way of explanation. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean up.”

“I am not concerned about the mess.” Athos stepped into the room, careful to avoid the area that had fallen victim to Porthos’s endeavours. He placed the tray onto a low table as his gaze raked the length of Porthos’s body. “But perhaps you should clean yourself up a little before you eat this.”

Porthos could now see that it was amusement that lit Athos’s eyes, not irritation. Porthos himself was in much the same state as the floor, and he shot Athos a sheepish smile before taking note of the contents of the tray: a selection of bread, cheese, and meats, plus a small flagon of wine.

“Is that for me?”

Athos gave a nod of confirmation. “Mme. Bonacieux told me what you were doing. I thought you might appreciate some refreshment.”

Porthos felt his stomach’s affirmative grumble and he beamed at Athos. “I could kiss you,” he declared happily.

An eyebrow quirked. “Not in that state you won’t,” Athos asserted, deadpan.

Laughing in surprised delight, Porthos felt a sudden urge to heedlessly grab Athos and kiss him, soot and all. Instead, he found a clean rag and wiped his face and hands, hoping that the heat that was now running through his veins remained imperceptible.

Or, perhaps, hoping it _did_ show. Just a little.

Porthos didn’t hesitate to dig in. It was simple fare, but Porthos appreciated it far more than he would have a rich spread. Athos sat with him and poured himself some of the wine.

“You should have some’v this before I eat it all,” Porthos said between mouthfuls, gesturing at the rapidly diminishing food.

“Please, go ahead.” There was the ghost of a smile on Athos’s lips as he watched Porthos eat with such zeal. “I am not hungry.”

Porthos considered that, the slight crease of a frown between his brows. He had rarely seen Athos eat, and, with the amount he drank, that could hardly be beneficial to his health. It wasn’t his place to admonish the man for his poor eating habits, but he couldn’t quell the niggle of worry.

Perhaps Athos divined the reason for his quiet concern, for a moment later he took a piece of bread and placed a slice of cheese atop it. “I can maybe manage a little,” he conceded.

There was something almost intimate about sharing the impromptu meal, made all the more pronounced for Athos having prepared it himself. For Porthos, food had always been one of those commodities hard fought for where most people took it for granted, and he understood its value better than most. It was the simple fact of the gesture itself, however, that struck him deepest, left him unable to eradicate the smile from his face.

It didn’t take Porthos long to devour the contents of the tray. As he was washing down the final bite with the remainder of the wine, Athos rose and crossed to the fireplace. Crouching, he began folding up one of the sheets and Porthos realised he meant to help clear up.

“There’s no need for you to do that,” Porthos told him, quickly moving to take over. He had created the mess and was quite prepared to tidy it up.

Athos didn’t stop what he was doing. “It will be far quicker with the two of us.”

Seeing that it would be futile to argue, and touched by Athos’s desire to help, Porthos bent to take the other edge of the sheet with no further protest.

* * * *

“May I join you?”

Three pairs of eyes fell upon the man in the doorway, stunned. Athos had never before joined them for a meal, at least not since Porthos’s arrival. And judging by the equally astonished reactions of Aramis and Constance, they found his appearance just as much of a surprise.

It was Constance who recovered her wits first. “Yes, of course!” she exclaimed, collecting the plate she had set aside to take up to Athos and placing it at the head of the table before taking her own seat.

Athos pushed the plate around to the seat beside Aramis and sat down. From across the table, Porthos grinned at him in surprised delight, thrilled that Athos no longer seemed so keen to keep himself apart from the other inhabitants of the house.

As they ate, Aramis, Porthos, and Constance quickly fell into an animated conversation that had become typical for them during meals. Athos remained mostly silent, but he listened to their chattering and joking with an attentiveness that was truly inquisitive rather than merely polite, and he allowed himself to be drawn into the discourse several times.

And several times he met Porthos’s gaze, not hiding the smile in his eyes, enjoying their company as much as they were pleased to have him join them. It felt right, and La Fère itself seemed to shake off some of its attendant gloom.

When they were finished eating, Athos stood and cleared his throat, suddenly apprehensive to find himself the subject of the others’ attention.

“Now Porthos has restored the fireplace to a serviceable state, I have set a fire in the salon.” He paused, eyes darting between the three of them as if anxious of rejection should he continue. Porthos held his gaze in silent encouragement. “If you would all care to join me…?”

“Oh, yes!” Constance replied instantly, rising to collect the plates and clear the table.

Porthos grinned as he and Aramis stood in unison to help Constance. “I didn’t do all that for nothin’,” he said, his smile giving lie to the flippancy of the quip, and he didn’t fail to notice the smile that touched Athos’s lips as he ducked his head and picked up the stack of plates for Constance.

Resolving by mutual decision to leave the washing for the morning, the four of them moved into the salon. Constance chose a comfortably worn chair close to the fire, tucking her feet up on the seat beneath her. Aramis turned another chair around, angling it so that when he sat, the light of the fire fell upon the pages of the book he had produced from somewhere.

Porthos dropped onto a larger chair, pleased to see the flames dancing unimpeded, evidence of his success in clearing the blocked flue. The fire cast an intimate glow over the room, a cloak of warmth that settled around them like a blanket. Athos handed a cup of wine each to Constance and Aramis, then poured two more, for himself and Porthos. As Porthos took the proffered cup, his fingers brushed Athos’s, and he allowed his hand to linger for a few seconds. He looked up to find his smile reflected back at him, almost hidden amongst the soft light and shadows dancing across Athos’s features.

To Porthos’s surprise, instead of moving away to find another seat, Athos sank down beside him, close enough that they were shoulder to shoulder. Athos had never before been so demonstrably tactile, but perhaps he had just needed some gentle coaxing to lower his shields a little and allow himself to reconnect with the people who still so clearly cared for him.

When they were all comfortably settled, Aramis began to read aloud from his book. It was poetry, written in a language Porthos couldn’t identify, let alone comprehend, but the sentiment behind the words came across clearly in the way Aramis spoke them. He so naturally and adeptly conveyed the emotion the poet had surely felt when composing the verses that it mattered little that Porthos didn’t understand the words.

Porthos glanced to his side. Athos’s eyes were closed and there was a look of peaceful tranquility upon his features so at odds with his typical solemn expression that Porthos’s spirits lifted too, leaving him with a feeling of profound serenity and a sense of inclusion and belonging that he had never thought he would be lucky enough to experience.

Sat before the crackling glow of the fire, with the soft lilt of Aramis’s voice reading the foreign but beautiful words and the warmth of Athos’s thigh pressed against his own, Porthos would have been quite content to spend the remainder of his life right there in La Fère’s drawing room. But it wasn’t long after Aramis came to the end of his volume that Athos rose and bade them all goodnight.

Instantly missing Athos’s presence at his side, Porthos wanted to argue that he stay a while longer. Fighting that selfish desire, he wished Athos goodnight in return, watching as he left the room and glad to see there was a lightness to his step that had so often been absent before.

When he turned back, it was to find Constance smiling at him.

“He likes you.”

“I don’t know how you managed it, but I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time.” Aramis was smiling too, and looked so much more at ease than Porthos had yet seen him, as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders.

Porthos gave a modest shrug. “I’ve done nothin’ special.” He had only really sought to treat the man as he would anybody else, but was elated to hear this confirmation that he had somehow chased away a few of those dark shadows that plagued their master. Their friend.

“Well, whatever you’re doing,” Aramis said as he stood and stretched, flashing his teeth in what could only be described as a leer so suggestive Porthos felt heat rise to his cheeks, “Keep doing it.”

As he passed on his way to the door, Aramis gave Porthos’s shoulder a brief squeeze that conveyed both his approval and his gratitude.

That he had had a hand in returning a measure of good cheer to La Fère warmed Porthos more than the fire that continued to blaze in the hearth.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains depiction of suicidal thoughts.

Athos began to regularly seek Porthos out whenever he was working around the house. Sometimes he would bring food or drink, and he would always offer his assistance with whatever Porthos happened to be doing. Porthos always accepted, not only because he knew Athos would disregard any refusal, but because he enjoyed the man’s company. He was taciturn by nature, but in no way aloof – his portrait clearly did him a disservice – and Porthos welcomed his presence even when he spoke little. Athos didn’t mind getting his hands dirty, nor did he shy away from physical labour; he was about as far removed from Porthos’s conception of a nobleman as it was possible to get.

Granted, Porthos wasn’t acquainted with many noblemen – none, to be perfectly honest – and so had little for comparison, but he knew now that Athos fell outside the expected parameters of social status and cared naught for their delineations.

What remained infuriating was how Athos continued to keep his innermost thoughts securely concealed behind the protective barriers he had erected within himself. Porthos didn’t begrudge him his privacy, tried instead to let him know he had nothing to fear from letting his emotions show.

Gradually, Porthos’s gentle coaxing and open friendship took effect; Athos grew noticeably more at ease, less guarded. Every shared look, every smile sparked a thrill in Porthos’s stomach, and he became more and more convinced that Athos felt it too.

Confirmation came one evening when the two of them were still sat in their now customary spot side by side in front of the fire after Aramis and Constance had retired to bed. In the warm silence, Athos leant into Porthos, tucking himself comfortably against his side, and when Porthos boldly dared to take Athos’s hand, he heard the subtle hitch of his breath and then fingers curled around his own.

They remained that way even after the fire had died but for a few glowing embers.

* * * *

Athos also became a regular attendant of their evening meal, joining them every day to eat, and often staying to help clear up afterwards. He was, therefore, notable by his absence when he failed to turn up one night.

“Where’s Athos?” Constance asked as she began ladling stew into bowls.

Porthos had been wondering the same thing, for he hadn’t seen Athos all afternoon. That in itself still wasn’t unheard of, but that he had not yet arrived for supper was unusual.

“Maybe he’s lost track of time,” Aramis mused aloud. “I’ll go and fetch him.”

Trying to convince himself that Athos’s tardiness portended nothing ominous, that the apprehension fluttering in his chest was unfounded, Porthos busied himself collecting spoons and cups and placing them on the table, awaiting the arrival of Aramis and Athos.

But when Aramis eventually reappeared in the doorway, he was alone. Porthos began to ask after Athos, but the words died on his lips when he saw the look of despair on Aramis’s face. Cold fingers clutched his heart with dread.

“What?” he demanded, his voice gruff with fear.

“He’s drinking.” Aramis sank heavily onto a stool, closing his eyes as if to fend off the reality of what he had seen, and Porthos’s heart sank. “He’s drunk.”

Constance’s hand went to her throat. “But why?” she asked in a small voice, not really expecting Aramis to be able to provide a simple explanation. “He’s been so much happier lately.”

Aramis gave a helpless shrug. “He wouldn’t say anything beyond ordering me to leave.”

Anger boiled up inside Porthos. He wanted to rail at them all – himself included, berate them for not noticing this was going to happen. Had there been signs they had missed, something that had indicated Athos had toppled back onto his previous destructive path?

No. There had been nothing. Porthos was just as surprised as Aramis and Constance, but that didn’t stop him wondering if there was something they could have done. A profound sorrow washed over him, engulfing his anger, leaving him hollow.

“Perhaps that’s the problem,” Aramis muttered after a few moments of contemplative silence. “He is afraid to let himself be happy again.” He met Constance’s gaze and they shared a look of sad understanding.

Porthos’s ignorance of Athos’s past had never concerned him as much as it did then. Had this somehow been his fault? He had never pushed, but had he unwittingly provoked whatever dreadful memory Athos had been fighting so hard to suppress? His hands balled into fists on the table, just as powerless as Aramis.

A gentle touch to his hand drew his attention. Constance was regarding him with cautious hope. “Perhaps you should go to him.”

“What c’n I do?” As much as he wanted to help, if he had, as he believed, been a part of its cause, how could Porthos hope to reverse this relapse?

“More than you think, I am certain.”

* * * *

Athos raised his head slowly, as if struggling to lift a great weight. The large bed behind him was likely the only thing keeping him upright. Heavy drapes drawn across the windows left the room in twilight darkness, but Porthos was still able to see that a patina of dust coated every surface save an assortment of bottles scattered across the floor. A stale, musty smell permeated the air.

This was the master bedroom, but it was clear it was no longer used.

A dulled gaze fell upon Porthos as he approached the slumped figure, hazy, unfocused, and the hand around Porthos’s heart squeezed a little more tightly.

“Athos?”

“Why are you here?” The words were spoken carefully, but Athos’s aristocratic voice only emphasised the mild slur that tainted them.

It was impossible to ignore the ache in his chest, but Porthos forced himself to keep his voice even. “Aramis is worried about you.”

“Aramis should find a more worthy recipient of his compassion.” Dismissing Porthos, Athos picked up the bottle of wine at his side and took a long swallow of what remained of its contents.

Porthos crouched down before Athos and tried to look him in the eye, his tone becoming more insistent. “ _I’m_ worried about you.”

Athos dropped his gaze, turned his head away. If the bed had not been at his back, he might even have drawn himself further away from his unwanted guest.

“Whatever it is that’s troublin’ you, this—” Porthos seized the bottle, pulling it from Athos’s grasp “—ain’t the answer.”

Athos made a grab for the wine, but Porthos easily held it out of his reach. Fury flashed briefly behind pale eyes, replaced moments later by resignation. He flinched when Porthos wound an arm around him, but made no effort to resist as he was hauled up and onto the bed.

“Just get some sleep, yeah?” It was the only advice Porthos could offer, but he was sure it would help. He would do whatever it took to get Athos past this; his determination remained unshaken, even in the face of this unexpected setback. When he received no response, Porthos reached out to gently push the sweat-damp hair from Athos’s forehead. Athos’s eyes closed at the tender brush of his fingertips and he almost turned his head into the touch, but then he rolled away, out of reach, curling into himself with his back to Porthos.

Porthos hovered uncertainly beside the bed, expecting to hear the command to leave. When no such demand came, he lowered himself to the floor and settled with one elbow resting on the mattress, his head in the crook of his arm, and his watchful gaze on the forlorn figure huddled on the bed.

* * * *

Awakened by the bright early morning sunlight streaming through the gap in the drapes, Porthos blinked and gingerly raised his head. The muscles in his neck made known their displeasure at the position in which they had spent the night, but all discomfort was quickly forgotten as Porthos realised the bed was empty.

A quick scan of the room revealed he was now alone.

With a sense of foreboding curling darkly within his stomach, he hurried out and raced downstairs. Panic surged inside him, unfounded but irrefutable; the need to find Athos drove him through La Fère’s multitude of rooms on a frantic search, hoping his sudden, irrational fear was groundless.

Aramis and Constance looked up in alarm as Porthos burst into the kitchen, his last vestige of hope draining upon only finding the two of them there. One look at the expression on his face had Aramis on his feet in an instant.

“Have you seen Athos?” It was the fear that left Porthos breathless, not his sprint through the house.

“I thought you were with him.” The fear seemed to be contagious; Aramis sounded as worried as Porthos felt.

Porthos cursed himself for having fallen asleep. He should have been more vigilant. “I was, but when I woke up he was gone.” 

Porthos looked from Aramis to Constance, silently imploring them to supply an explanation, tell him they knew where Athos was and that he was overreacting, but neither of them could offer any enlightenment.

“He won’t have gone far,” Constance said, aiming for optimism and not quite reaching it.

“No.” Aramis gave a slow nod of agreement. “He’s barely even stepped outside the house in—” He stopped short, his eyes going wide with sudden comprehension. One hand unconsciously tangled into his hair and tugged. “How could I not have remembered? It’s been a year…almost to the day…”

Constance gave a soft gasp. “But…he wouldn’t do anything foolish, would he?”

The way Aramis hesitated, caught his lip between his teeth as he considered his response – that he had to think about it at all – sent the panic flooding back through Porthos.

“I…don’t know.”

Porthos found his voice, growled two words in urgent petition.

“Find him.”

* * * *

The three of them began a desperate search of La Fère and its grounds. Porthos refused to believe Athos would have given in to the persistent pull of the darkness residing deep in his soul, and when he finally spotted Athos, knelt on the ground beneath the branches of a tree, his relief stopped him momentarily in his tracks. His first impression was that Athos must be engaged in prayer, but, as he neared, Porthos recognised the unmistakable shape of a pistol clasped in one of his hands.

His heart leapt into his throat, and he could barely choke out a hoarse cry. “Athos!”

At the sound of Porthos’s voice, Athos’s shoulders gave a minute twitch, but he otherwise remained motionless. He didn’t even raise his head when he spoke.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was flat, chillingly lifeless.

“Aramis was worried when you disappeared.” Porthos’s own voice sounded unsteady even to his own ears, but fear gave his words a weight akin to anger. “He thought you might do something stupid. Looks like he was right.”

“Aramis should mind his own affairs.”

“He is your friend. And so am I.” Porthos resisted the urge to grab Athos and shake him, rid him of this terrible apathy, make him see sense. “I’m not gonna watch you shoot yourself!”

“Then perhaps you should leave.”

“I’m goin’ nowhere.” Porthos dropped to his knees in front of Athos, heedless of the damp ground, willing him to lift his gaze but afraid of what he might see there. Now a little anger _did_ creep into the maelstrom of emotion swirling in Porthos’s mind; why did Athos refuse to accept there might be a way for him to free himself of his demons, if only he would accept the help of those who loved him. “Whatever happened, this can’t be the only solution. Let me help.”

“You can’t help me. What I did…it cannot be as easily fixed as a chair or a blocked fireplace.”

“Tell me?”

There was a pause. Silence fell around them. Even the birdsong somehow faded into nothingness until all Porthos could hear was the pounding of his heart in his ears. He grew certain Athos would say nothing, and when he finally did speak it was in a voice that was soft but laden with the pain of recollection.

“There was a woman.”

Another pause. When the silence again stretched for several heartbeats, Porthos quietly prompted, “The one in the painting.”

“Yes.” And then the words tumbled free, heavy with wretched misery. “I loved her, pledged to share my life with her. But she lied to me, betrayed me. She murdered my brother to hide her criminal past. So I ordered her to be hanged. From this very tree.”

The shock of the confession hit Porthos like a blow. He would never have guessed something so dreadful to be the reason for this man’s melancholy, but he didn’t let his own horror show as he finally caught Athos’s gaze and held it with earnest vehemence. “What else could you do? She killed your brother!”

Athos ignored the simple logic, having long since decided to carry the guilt and self-condemnation upon his own shoulders. “It is a burden I am not sure I can bear any longer.” All of that internalised shame and remorse was now written plainly on Athos’s face.

“This isn’t the answer. You’re stronger than this.”

“You barely know me, and yet you think so highly of me. I do not think you are a foolish man, Porthos, but on this point you are mistaken.”

“No,” Porthos stated with emphatic conviction, willing Athos to believe him. “You just need to stop pushing people away, accept our help.” If only he would give them the chance to prove he could not be held to blame for the terrible deeds this woman committed.

“I do not deserve it.”

Dropping his gaze once more, Athos lifted the pistol, studying it with an unreadable expression. Porthos’s heart stopped, his chest constricting painfully, muscles burning as he tensed, ready to spring forward the second Athos made to turn the weapon upon himself. The moment stretched, the two men caught in a terrible tableau from which the very air seemed to have been sucked, leaving them frozen in a still, stark vacuum.

Athos released the pistol, letting it drop impotently to the ground, and fisted his hand in a tight ball against his thigh. Porthos drew in a breath that seared his lungs, the erratic thumping of his heart against his ribs beginning to slow back to its regular rhythm. Extending a hand toward Athos, he stopped just shy of touching him, waiting for Athos to accept everything he was willing to offer.

When Athos met his eyes it was with the most unguarded, vulnerable look Porthos had ever seen upon his usually so inscrutable features. A lingering uncertainty vanished as Athos finally stopped resisting and surrendered to Porthos’s strength of will.

Porthos grasped Athos by the shoulders and gathered him close, wrapping his arms securely around his trembling body. A moment of resistance, then Athos sagged against him, too exhausted to hide the shame of his weakness.

Porthos held him until the shaking stopped.


	7. Chapter 7

“What on Earth are you doing?”

The bemused exclamation had Porthos grinning as he continued to work his knuckles into the ball of dough. He glanced up to see Athos standing at the threshold of the kitchen, one eyebrow raised and a spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. It was a sight that made Porthos’s heart soar.

Afraid, at first, that Athos would once again seek to hide himself away, Porthos had been prepared for a battle, wondered just how he would be able to convince him of his worth when his mind was already lost in such a dark recess. But Athos had shown a stubborn determination to fight the doubtless strong desire to succumb to the inviting oblivion of isolation and alcohol.

Porthos admired the strength of his will, and was heartened by the ease with which Athos accepted his unspoken vow to help in every way he could. He had feared he might be pushed away, but Athos had continued to tentatively seek his company in the days following that heart-rending encounter beneath the tree. And if Porthos was a little more attentive to his mood, Athos gave no indication that he objected.

Now, every time he caught even the barest hint of that rare smile returning, Porthos felt the uneasy tension in his stomach uncoil itself a little more.

“Porthos is always telling me how much he loves my bread,” Constance said by way of explanation, smiling as she folded more dough in a bowl. “So I’m teaching him how to bake it himself.”

In respect of his wishes, Porthos had not related every detail of what happened after he found Athos that morning, but, as his friends, Aramis and Constance deserved to know something of the truth. Porthos had grudgingly agreed not to mention the pistol, because Athos didn’t want them to worry unnecessarily.

 _Then don’t give ’em any reason to_ , had been Porthos’s impassioned response – advice Athos had acknowledged and accepted with a deferential nod.

Both Aramis and Constance had seemed to understand what lay behind Porthos’s account, but to their credit, neither of them made a fuss. Like Porthos, they merely became more quietly mindful of Athos’s emotional state.

“And the process of baking bread requires making this much mess?”

“Yeah. Means you’re doin’ it right,” Porthos informed him with an unapologetic sincerity that he only managed to maintain for a few seconds before both he and Constance started laughing, their high spirits boosted by Athos’s untroubled dry humour.

“I see. And I suppose it is always necessary to coat oneself in flour, too.”

Porthos’s brows drew together in confusion, only to be enlightened moments later when Athos stepped closer and brushed the side of his cheek with warm fingertips. Porthos recalled having scratched his face – his hand must have left a smudge of flour behind – but any concern about the mess he had made faded as that gentle touch played over his skin.

Athos froze, suddenly conscious of his action, and Porthos stilled too, searched Athos’s eyes for any sign he was about to take flight. It was impossible to discern just what he was thinking behind that impermeable green gaze, but when Athos made no move to pull away, Porthos leant into the touch, never once breaking eye contact.

His cheek cupped in Athos’s dry palm, Porthos felt the slightest quiver of a tremor before Athos slowly swept his thumb across the skin beneath his eye, pausing just where his scar tapered off, and then the hand was gone.

Porthos wanted to catch ahold of it, return that tender touch, but he was all too aware that they were not alone; Constance might be feigning intense preoccupation in rescuing Porthos’s dough, but her curiosity was palpable. Instead, he smiled, and every one of the emotions swirling within him must have been visible in that simple gesture, for Athos finally looked away, ducking his head.

But it was bashful self-consciousness that coloured his cheeks, not fear.

Athos’s eyes darted to Constance as he recovered himself, finding his voice a few moments later. “I shall leave you to it.” He turned to leave, but at the door he turned back, his gaze finding Porthos once more.

“If you are looking to learn new skills, come to the dining room this afternoon.”

Porthos’s smile became a grin, aware that Athos was extending the invitation – whatever it may encompass – as a request for Porthos’s company. He was striving to heal the void left in his heart, and Porthos would gladly aid him, whatever he required.

“I’ll be there.”

Porthos didn’t fail to notice the smirk that Constance struggled to suppress as she resumed her instruction.

* * * *

The hitherto tidily arranged furniture of the dining room had been pushed against the walls, leaving a free space in the centre that was currently unoccupied. Aramis, slumped in one of the displaced chairs, his already unruly hair a dishevelled mess, looked up as Porthos entered and beamed with undisguised relief.

“Praise God, a fresh victim! I am saved!”

Porthos only stared at him in slightly worried confusion. There was nothing sinister, however, in Athos’s relaxed stance, one shoulder propped against the wall. He gave a small, sardonic shake of his head at Aramis’s melodramatic exclamation.

“Don’t scare him, Aramis,” Athos chided without heat.

“He should be warned of what he’s letting himself in for,” Aramis argued, pushing himself laboriously to his feet to make his escape. As he passed Porthos, he bestowed upon him a commiserative pat on the shoulder and a few solemn parting words. “Good luck, my friend.”

None the wiser, Porthos nevertheless obediently complied when Athos motioned him over to the table. Not sure what to expect, Porthos was perplexed by the collection of swords scattered across the tabletop. He had only ever seen such fine weapons at the hip of noblemen and the King’s soldiers; a few times, he had come close to finding himself at the business end of one.

“Do you have any experience with a sword?”

“Never needed a sword,” Porthos replied, then held up both hands, fingers spread. “I got these.” It went without saying that, short of stealing one, he would never have been able to afford such a weapon of his own. He had easily made up for that in other ways.

“I have no doubt you are an excellent brawler,” Athos said with no hint of ridicule. “But I believe you could be just as capable with a blade in your hand.” He gestured at the array of swords. “Pick one.”

Porthos blinked, realising Athos meant to teach him how to properly wield a sword. As much as he had enjoyed learning how to bake bread, this sounded a far more exciting prospect. What was more, Athos seemed keen to take on the role of instructor, the light Porthos had previously witnessed in his eyes restored once more.

Picking up each sword in turn, Porthos tested their weight and grip – not really knowing what he should be looking for – until he was happy he had found one that felt right in his hand. Athos nodded approval of his choice and led him into the cleared space in the middle of the room.

Athos had Porthos raise the sword, and then, frowning in concentration, proceeded to correct his stance. Porthos had no complaint about being tugged into position by sure hands, allowing Athos to manhandle him until he was satisfied.

When Porthos had told Aramis and Constance he was a quick learner, he hadn’t been exaggerating. Athos also proved himself to be a proficient and patient teacher, giving succinct, precise instruction and never failing to point out when Porthos’s technique erred.

It also became clear just why Aramis had appeared so worn out earlier.

Some time later, muscles aching and sweat beading on his forehead, Porthos found himself on his back, disarmed, the point of Athos’s blade hovering an inch from the base of his throat.

“Is this revenge for me beatin’ you at cards?”

The corner of Athos’s mouth quirked upward. “I had to even the score somehow.”

Elegantly sweeping the sword away, he extended a hand to Porthos. Taking it gratefully, Porthos hauled himself back to his feet.

Both men froze, mere inches from each other, hands still clasped. Instead of releasing him, Athos’s fingers tightened their grip, sending a jolt through Porthos, spurring him into instinctive action. His free hand curling behind Athos’s neck, he bent his head to capture his lips with his own. It was a rough kiss, inelegant, messy, raw, but Athos responded with a passion the equal of that which flared in Porthos.

Their hands parted to seek new purchase at waist and hips; Porthos arched his body into Athos’s, bringing them flush together as he licked his way into the wet heat of Athos’s mouth. Fire spread through his veins, leaving him insensible to everything but the feel of the body against his, the drag of lips, the hot pressure of the hands clutching, pulling…

And then Athos broke away, hands fisted in Porthos’s shirt as if unsure whether to pull him close again or push him away. Instantly regretting his moment of reckless abandon, Porthos felt his stomach twist; he just couldn’t stop disrupting this man’s life, and this time there was nobody to blame but himself.

“’M sorry.” His voice was thick with both passion and sincere remorse.

Athos shook his head, met Porthos’s fearful gaze with nervous agitation. “Don’t apologise.” His hands twisted tighter and he drew in a deep, shaky breath before squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t—” He faltered, swallowed audibly before trying again. “I can’t risk allowing myself to…”

 _Fall in love again_. The words remained unspoken, but Porthos nevertheless heard them clearly in the charged silence between them. Athos forced his fingers to relax, his eyes now on his hands as he placed his palms flat on Porthos’s chest and spread his fingers over the rumpled linen of his shirt.

“I’ll never hurt you.” It was both statement of fact and pledge.

Athos’s hands stilled and his chin dropped to his chest as he hung his head in contrition, belatedly aware of having exhibited a lack of faith in Porthos, of entertaining the possibility he might cause him more pain.

“I know.” His voice was soft, but his words genuine, sincere. “What must you think of me?”

“All I know is what I see, and that’s a man who’s been betrayed but has the strength to free himself from the past and live his life as he wishes.” Porthos was as surprised by the passion in his voice as Athos.

“I’m not sure I do.”

Gently lifting Athos’s chin with two fingers, Porthos forced him to meet his earnest gaze. “You do.”

Porthos watched as Athos wavered, his defenses weakening as something inside dared to consider that what Porthos said might be true. For once, his heart claimed victory in the internal battle; Athos took the half-step forward into Porthos’s embrace.

* * * *

The room Porthos was taken to boasted none of the opulence of the master bedroom. It was Spartan in its furnishings, austere in its decoration, and not what one would expect of the private quarters of the master of such a grand house, but it was perfectly suited to Athos’s desire to renounce his noble past.

Porthos barely noticed his surroundings, however, so focused was he on the man before him. Ever since he had first met Athos, he had felt strangely drawn to him, as if there existed an invisible, impossible bond between them. He couldn’t explain it, but that intangible connection now buzzed beneath his skin, igniting every nerve.

Athos was staring at him with something akin to wonder, and maybe a little trepidation; Porthos knew it was Athos’s own reaction that left him nervous, so sure he had been that he would never experience this again. It took a great effort for Porthos to remain still, but the way Athos’s hand rose jerkily toward him was confirmation that Athos was fighting the same need for contact.

“You c’n touch.” Porthos’s voice was gravel, and all the motivation Athos needed. Fingers were suddenly exploring the broad planes of his chest, trailing down to his hips. Porthos could feel the heat of them through the linen of his shirt, the burning trail they left in their wake.

Athos’s hands came to rest at Porthos’s waist, his fingers playing under the hem of his shirt, brushing over the skin beneath.

“May I?”

The polite request was unfamiliar to Porthos, but not wholly unexpected from someone both so reserved and honourable.

“Yeah.”

Athos lifted the shirt and drew it all the way over Porthos’s head before returning his hands to his bared chest, fingertips skimming over muscles, tracing the faded lines of scars. His touch was light, tentative, and Porthos waited until he raised his head again, almost mesmerised by that gentle caress; never had he been touched with such reverence.

A shy smile alighted upon Athos’s lips. “I must confess I am not as well versed in this as I am in the use of a sword.”

“Don’t worry,” Porthos said, curling a hand behind Athos’s neck and drawing him closer. “I c’n show you.”

Porthos crushed his lips to Athos’s, determined but not overbearing, and lowered him to the bed. Athos returned his kiss and willingly relinquished all command as he was guided onto the mattress. Barely breaking contact, Porthos worked him free of his shirt, exploring every inch of newly exposed skin with lips and tongue, finding each sensitive spot, watching as Athos’s reserved composure began to crumble.

Breeches and braies soon followed, flesh meeting hot flesh with desperate need, Athos’s hands clutching reflexively at his shoulders, urging him closer. Only when Porthos slid a hand down between his legs did Athos tense. Glancing up along the length of Athos’s body, Porthos was met by wide eyes that were dark with desire.

“Don’t stop.”

Athos gradually relaxed under his deft touch, and Porthos prepared them both with care, letting Athos’s reactions guide his every move. By the time he was ready, Athos’s hands were tangled in the sheet beneath him, the last of his control having fled. It was a sight that left Porthos breathless, unaware of everything save the contact between them. As he slowly pushed into Athos, he felt legs wrap around him, locking him in place, and he was lost.

They moved together in a steady rhythm, Athos rising to meet his every thrust, lips parting as he gasped at the drag of flesh. Porthos bent to capture the sound with his mouth, tasting salt, feeling the tickle of Athos’s beard against sensitive skin.

“Porthos...”

His name crackled in the air between them, a ragged plea. Taking his weight on one arm, Porthos slid a hand between their bodies, curling blunt fingers around Athos and tugging in time with his increasing pace. Moments later, Athos was shuddering, head thrown back and neck bared to Porthos, pulling him close. Porthos pushed deep into that tight heat and followed him over the edge.

The brilliant, consuming euphoria slowly faded, an ebbing current flitting through his bloodstream. Porthos was as loath to move away as Athos was to release him, but they eventually disentangled themselves. As Porthos made to rise, Athos stopped him, craned his neck to steal one more kiss before letting him go.

Unashamed in his nakedness, Porthos fetched a cloth and dampened it with water from a pitcher, Athos quietly watching as he quickly and efficiently cleaned them both of the worst of the mess.

By the time he returned to the bed, Athos had sunk into a contemplative silence, his features set in grave meditation. So deeply was he lost in his thoughts he didn’t even seem to notice when Porthos skimmed his fingertips over the heated skin of his side. A knot of concern coiled in Porthos’s stomach, his hand stilling as he silently willed Athos not to retreat back behind those protective barriers of his.

“You’re not regrettin’ this, are you?”

“No,” Athos assured him immediately. “Not at all.” He drew Porthos’s hand to his lips, placed a kiss on his knuckles. “I cannot remember when I last felt this happy.”

He didn’t sound all that happy, but Porthos could guess the reason for his heavy heart, the reticence that kept him from embracing that happiness.

“And you’re still thinking you don’t deserve it.”

Athos’s silence was all the confirmation he needed. Pushing himself up onto one elbow, Porthos gently turned Athos’s face so he could meet those doleful eyes, but he said nothing for he knew it would make little difference. He had only known Athos a short time, but already believed him to be a good man; now Athos had to come to believe the same of himself. Until that happened, Porthos would prove his own conviction in the most persuasive way he knew.

Bending low, he caught Athos’s lips in a kiss that was long and slow, demanding nothing, offering everything. When he felt Athos tilt his chin to meet him, Porthos’s heart swelled with joy; however tentatively, Athos was agreeing to take the risk he had so long denied himself.

When they parted, Athos took Porthos’s hand back into his own and held it to his heart as Porthos settled back down, pressed tight against him.


	8. Chapter 8

Porthos found Athos stood before a window, bathed in golden light. It was a sight that would have made him smile had it not been for the tension evident in the set of Athos’s shoulders.

Stepping up close behind him, Porthos slid a hand around Athos’s hip and waited until he felt some of that tension leach away as Athos leant back against his chest. Attuned as he was now becoming to Athos’s moods, Porthos could tell there was something bothering him, especially now he was showing every sign of freeing himself from the oppressive melancholy that had been hanging over him for so long.

“What’s troublin’ ya?”

“I—” Athos began, and then stopped, at a loss as to how to continue. His shoulders rose and fell as he drew in a deep breath and turned to Porthos. His face was pale, his eyes haunted.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Porthos said, not quite attaining the jocular tone he was aiming for. Whenever Athos was unsettled, he felt that distress himself and wanted to cure it.

“I think perhaps I have.”

Porthos’s brows bunched with worry. “What d’ya mean?”

Athos turned back to the window. “Out there,” he said, his voice laced with quiet alarm. “I thought I saw…someone.”

Following his gaze, Porthos could see nothing but that bloody tree, an ominous silhouette against the gloriously bright sunlight. He had half a mind to just chop the damned thing down and rid La Fère of that ever-present reminder of its painful past.

“There’s nothin’ there.”

Silently, Athos kept staring, as if the elusive figure might reappear through sheer force of will. When all remained still, he shook his head and scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Maybe I am going mad.”

That was a possibility Porthos hadn’t yet even considered, that everything that had happened may have had a deeper effect on Athos than anyone could have realised. Porthos knew he could keep Athos safe from any physical threat, but how could he do anything more to save him from what ailed his mind. Every time Athos seemed to be breaking free of the clutches of his demons, they dug their claws in all the more firmly. Porthos’s hand reflexively tightened its protective hold.

Maybe if Athos got away from La Fère for a while the memories would leave him alone, if only for a short time.

“It’s a nice day,” Porthos said. “Why don’t we go out, enjoy it?”

Athos cast an uneasy glance back at the scene outside the window and Porthos remembered Aramis saying that he rarely ventured outside any more. The only occasion Porthos could recall save when he had found him beneath the tree was that night early in their acquaintance when the late hour had provided the cover of darkness.

“Or we c’n stay here if you want,” he offered when Athos made no reply. “You c’n best me with a sword again.”

“No. You’re right.” Athos turned his back to the window and gave Porthos a smile that almost chased away the shadows behind his eyes. “I’d like to go out.”

* * * *

Athos announced that he knew the perfect place to spend the afternoon, somewhere he would like to share with Porthos. Porthos was fully in favour of this plan until Athos led him to the stables.

“We’re takin’ the horses?”

“It is a long walk on foot.”

By no means scared of the animals, Porthos did, however, possess little confidence in his riding skills. Horses were a rare commodity in the Courts, and nobody with the means to own one had the time or generosity of spirit for such altruistic acts as teaching a street urchin to ride.

Athos sensed his hesitation and offered him a small smile of encouragement. He stopped at one of the stalls and made a soft clucking noise with his tongue. A dark brown head poked out over the half door and nuzzled at Athos’s outstretched palm.

“You can ride Flip.” At the sound of his name, the horse gave Athos’s shoulder a soft bump with his nose and was rewarded with an affectionate stroke. “He was Thomas’s horse. He’s very gentle.”

Porthos’s response was a wary grunt, but as Athos showed him how to fasten the saddle and reins, and instructed him in the basic commands and techniques, Flip proved to be every bit as calm and patient as Porthos needed him to be. Once he was certain he wasn’t going to fall off, Porthos began to enjoy it, found he could communicate with the horse as easily as if they spoke the same language. That may have had more to do with Flip’s training than any latent skill of his own, but Athos allowed him to take a little of the credit.

Seeing the light return to Athos’s eyes as he shared Porthos’s success made it all the more brilliant.

He may have picked up the basics of riding relatively quickly, but Porthos was nevertheless glad that they made the journey at a steady pace. They rode side by side, sharing easy conversation. If Athos was at all anxious, it didn’t show; he seemed relaxed away from the house, leaving Porthos wondering why he had chosen to remain there when he could so easily have found somewhere else to live, somewhere free from painful memories.

That was a question he didn’t voice, for this was not the time to be dwelling on such dark thoughts, not when the sun was shining down through the branches of the trees and the air around them was filled with birdsong.

After an hour’s ride, as they reached the edge of a thick copse, Athos signalled for a halt. Porthos’s dismount couldn’t have been described as graceful, but he was too taken aback by the sight before him to care. They had entered a clearing, the trees opening up to reveal a small lake that caught the sun’s rays in glittering welcome.

He could only stare. So accustomed to the grimy streets of the Courts, the sight of the sparkling water bordered by verdant forest left him momentarily speechless. It was a beautiful spot, and Porthos felt incredibly honoured that Athos had chosen to share it with him.

His awed silence had the corner of Athos’s mouth lifting in a pleased smile. “Thomas and I used to come here often,” he said. “To swim, or sometimes to fish.” The memory seemed only to lift his spirits, not weigh them down with the sorrow of more recent events. His smile grew wistful as he looked out across the calm water of the lake, but those happy childhood memories had driven away the sadness that usually plagued him.

Imagining a carefree, unburdened young Athos playing in the lake wasn’t as difficult as Porthos would have guessed it to be. Those rare times he had seen past the dark shroud of melancholy had hinted at the brighter soul hidden beyond.

“Ever catch anythin’?”

“No. Thomas would always make too much noise and scare away the fish.”

Porthos snorted a laugh at the fond irritation in Athos’s voice. The disparity between their childhoods could not have been more apparent, and yet Porthos felt no jealousy, only a joy at being there in that moment, Athos at his side.

Athos settled onto a patch of grass, but Porthos walked down to the water’s edge, feeling a crazy, childish urge to jump in, just for the sheer hell of it. The passage of a minute was all it took for him to give in to that urge and he started pulling off his clothes until only his braies remained.

“What on Earth are you doing?” A faint trace of alarm crept into Athos’s tone as he watched Porthos strip in amused but bewildered disbelief.

“I’m goin’ in!” Porthos’s teeth flashed in a playful grin. “Wanna join me?”

“No, thank you. I’m quite comfortable here.”

Porthos hitched one shoulder in a carefree shrug. “Suit yerself.” With a laugh, he turned and waded in.

The water was cold; goosebumps erupted across every inch of his flesh, but Porthos was too caught up in the rush of exhilaration and freedom to care. When he was deep enough that the water lapped at his bare waist, he stopped and turned back to face the bank.

“C’mon,” he called, waving an arm in an optimistic attempt to coax Athos in. “The water’s lovely!”

Athos raised a sceptical eyebrow. “I sincerely doubt that. It must be freezing.”

“Nah.” Porthos smiled nonchalantly as he planted his hands on his hips. “You just wanna sit there an’ enjoy the view.”

Athos’s other eyebrow shot up, drawing a deep, rumbling chuckle from Porthos’s stomach.

“More lake fer me to enjoy, then.”

Athos smiled then, a proper smile that reached his eyes, crinkling at their corners and chasing away any remaining trace of his earlier unease. Porthos had missed that smile.

Forcing himself to stop staring with what must be a foolish grin on his face, Porthos pivoted in a slow circle, dragging his fingers across the lake’s surface and watching the wake ripple gently away. As the water smoothed once more, he looked up at the pale blue sky, scattered with wispy clouds, marvelling at the serenity of their surroundings.

A light splashing behind him drew his attention back to the present and he turned to find Athos gingerly following him into the water, dressed in only his smallclothes, a comical grimace on his face.

“I was right. It _is_ freezing.”

“’S not so bad once you’re in.” Porthos reached out to take Athos’s hand and pulled him close, into a kiss. The shared heat of their bodies drove off some of the chill of the water, warmth spreading from every point of contact between them.

When they parted, Athos cast a glance to the side, scanning the area around the lake. Porthos could understand why he might be nervous – such a show of affection in so open a space – but there was no sign of life beyond the sound of birds chattering in the branches, and the closely-packed trees afforded them a good measure of privacy.

“There’s nobody here but us,” Porthos assured him.

Athos’s eyes slowly returned to Porthos and he gave a tentative nod, knowing he was right but likely remembering the lurking figure he thought he had spied that morning and doing his best to put it from his mind. Smiling, Porthos leant forward as if to kiss Athos again, only to lurch backward and flick water at him instead. The droplets soaked into Athos’s undershirt, darkening the cloth in a dozen small, damp patches.

Athos glared at him with such a perfect expression of mock indignant outrage that Porthos couldn’t contain a bellow of laughter that stopped only when Athos threw an arm around his shoulders and dragged him down beneath the surface of the lake.

* * * *

When they arrived back at La Fère, the return journey having almost completely dried them, Porthos followed Athos through the door and almost collided with his back as he stopped abruptly.

“Athos?”

“Can you smell that?”

Mystified, Porthos sniffed the air. He could just detect a faint trace of something sweet and flowery.

“A woman’s scent?” he guessed, wondering why Athos thought it remarkable. “It must be Constance.”

But Athos was shaking his head. “No. It isn’t Constance.” His voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper. “It’s _her_. It’s her scent.”

Porthos instantly knew who Athos meant: his wife. And with that understanding came a further realisation.

“That’s who you thought you saw this mornin’.”

The pause before Athos responded was heavy with his desire to be able to deny it. When he finally spoke, the single word held the wretched, undeniable truth.

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible,” Porthos insisted gently, ducking his head to meet Athos’s gaze. “She’s dead.”

“I know.”

Despite his agreement, Athos still sounded uncertain, but whether it was the facts or his own sanity he was questioning, Porthos couldn’t tell. Either way, the uneasy flitting of Athos’s eyes left him worried; had he not smelt the scent for himself he would have been even more concerned. Surely Athos was just mistaken, his senses playing tricks on him.

“She can’t hurt you anymore.” Porthos gathered Athos into a tight embrace, locking him within the circle of his arms. Athos stiffened, but didn’t pull away.

“She has never haunted me like this before.” His words were muffled against Porthos’s shoulder. “Perhaps it is a punishment.”

Porthos felt a surge of anger toward the woman who had so blithely destroyed this man. “No one c’n punish you for bein’ happy.”

He could only hope that Athos believed him. The source of his perceived need for punishment was his own sense of guilt, and that was something of which he was gradually learning to relinquish his hold.

“You are right.” Athos straightened, drew himself back to his full height. “I need to let go of the past. If only it would let go of me.”

“It will,” Porthos asserted. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You are a good man, Porthos.”

_So’re you. If only you would stop refusing to believe it._

If he didn’t say the words aloud, Athos couldn’t refute them. Instead, Porthos touched his lips to Athos’s, just to prove he had every intention of keeping his word. He felt Athos’s smile, and that was all he needed.

“C’mon,” Porthos said after a moment, hooking an arm around Athos’s shoulders and steering him in the direction of the kitchen. “I smell somethin’ else, an’ if anythin’s gonna help you forget yer troubles, it’s a good meal.”

* * * *

That evening, after Aramis and Constance had retired to bed, Athos took Porthos by the hand and led him upstairs. The hot flush of arousal mingled with admiration for Athos’s determination not to give in to his fears, and as they reached the door to Athos’s bedroom, Porthos tugged him around, took his face in his hands, and kissed him, long and deep.

His fingers already seeking skin, Athos allowed himself to be guided into the room, both he and Porthos stumbling as they went in their refusal to release each other. It was when they eventually parted to free themselves of their clothing that Athos suddenly froze, standing stock-still and unblinking as he stared down toward the bed.

It was immediately obvious what had caught his attention; the spray of colour was incongruously vivid in the otherwise stark room, illuminated in a pool of silver moonlight. A small glass vase sat on the low stool beside the bed, filled with a bunch of pale blue flowers.

“Where did they come from?” Porthos asked, his first thought being that Constance must have left them there.

Athos didn’t seem to hear him, just continued to stare, and when Porthos saw his horror-stricken expression, his breath caught in his throat. He touched Athos’s hand, quietly spoke his name in an attempt to free him from the thrall he was held in.

“Get rid of them.” A broken plea. “Please.”

Porthos instantly seized the vase and rushed it from the room. He didn’t understand, was mystified and concerned in equal measure, but he would do as Athos asked, all the while hoping this was not a further sign that Athos was losing his battle with what he feared was encroaching madness.

When he returned, he found Athos sat on the edge of the bed, the locket clutched in his fingers. Kneeling on the floor in front of him, Porthos took Athos’s hands and warmed them between his own, held them in silent support as Athos fought the dark pull of despair. That he hadn’t immediately gone in search of a drink spoke of his resolute defiance.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Athos raised his head and found Porthos’s eyes.

“They were her favourite flower.” Athos’s voice was even, but Porthos detected a small quaver as he continued. “She liked to weave them into her hair.”

It was difficult to reconcile the woman Athos was describing with the criminal Porthos knew her to be, but that contrast did explain why the pain she had left in Athos’s heart ran so deep. It was little wonder Athos’s reaction to the flowers had been so bizarre.

Porthos felt a flash of anger at the thought that someone had left them for him to find. Surely Aramis and Constance were aware of the association and neither of them would even consider playing such a cruel trick. That left Porthos at a loss for an alternative explanation.

“But how did they get here?”

“I am not altogether certain I didn’t bring them here myself.”

“No.” Porthos shook his head, clutched Athos’s hands more tightly, encouraging him to focus. “It wasn’t you. You’ve been with me all day.” He saw Athos register the truth of that simple fact. “An’ I smelt that scent too. You didn’t imagine that.”

Athos gave a slow nod, but he still looked grim. “But what other explanation is there?”

“I don’t know.” Porthos rose to sit beside Athos, drawing him close with one arm and pressing a soft kiss to his hair. “But we’ll figure it out.”

Athos looked at him then with such unguarded trust that Porthos’s heart skipped. He kissed Athos’s temple, an unspoken promise, and Athos tilted his chin up to meet his lips in a proper kiss.

“Thank you.” Porthos felt the words brush against his mouth, almost silent but laden with heartfelt passion. Athos wasn’t only thanking him for offering to help unravel this puzzle, but for giving him the strength he needed to shed the dark mantle of his past.

That night, Athos drifted into a mercifully undisturbed sleep, his head nestled against Porthos’s shoulder, one hand resting over his heart, and Porthos’s arm locked tight around him.

Porthos might not have the answers, but he would remain at Athos’s side for as long as he was needed.


	9. Chapter 9

“Are you lost?”

The young man started at the sound of Porthos’s voice and spun around to face him, eyes wide with surprise. Porthos was just as shocked by the sudden appearance of this stranger; in all the time he had been at La Fère, they had never once received a visitor. Having watched his approach from the cover of the trees lining the front of the house, Porthos had waited for him to almost reach the front step before making his presence known.

“No.” Recovering himself, the boy drew himself to his full height and flicked the hair from his eyes. “I’m looking for a woman.”

Porthos raised an eyebrow. Unsure what or who the boy was referring to, he nevertheless decided to have a little fun. “You should try the city. You’ll find plenty on offer there.”

The boy’s cheeks coloured, making him appear even younger than he was. “No…no, I’m not…” he stammered, until he began to suspect Porthos was teasing him. Squaring his shoulders, he started again. “I am looking for a particular woman, one who has stolen from me.” 

Porthos frowned at that, wondering how, if his tale was true, his search could have led him here and, having spent much of his life amongst thieves and chancers adept at lying, Porthos was certain there was some truth to his account. The boy seemed far too earnest to be attempting some kind of deception of his own, and yet his story was quite bizarre. “I still think you’ve got the wrong place. There’s only one woman here and she is not a thief.”

“Can I see her?” When Porthos opened his mouth to deny the request, the boy continued, trying hard not to sound like he was contradicting Porthos. “Please. I’m certain she was headed this way and I just want to make sure before I leave.”

There remained a small spark of hope within an otherwise woebegone expression that had Porthos wishing there was something more he could do to help beyond proving himself right. The fatigue that showed in the shadows beneath the boy’s eyes suggested he had travelled a long way, not to mention his unfortunate encounter with a thief, and Porthos finally took pity on him. The least he could do was try to point him in the right direction.

“Alright. Madame Bonacieux ain’t the woman you’re lookin’ for, but you c’n come in an’ see for yourself.”

* * * *

Constance and Aramis looked up with matching quizzical expressions as Porthos entered the kitchen with the young stranger. After several moments in which the boy did nothing but stare at Constance, Porthos prompted, “Well?”

“It’s not her.”

“Told’ja.”

Constance glanced at Porthos, then directed a confused frown back to the boy. “What’s not me?”

Porthos was the one who answered. “He thought you might be a thief.”

“Whyever would you think that?” Constance looked her accuser up and down, wondering whether or not to take offence.

The young man sheepishly rubbed at his neck. “I did not think _you_ were a thief,” he hurried to explain. “But I am looking for one.”

“You won’t find one here,” Aramis stated confidently.

Porthos gave a grunt of agreement. “I told ’im that, too.”

Taking no notice of them, the boy grinned an apology to Constance. Aramis snorted at his obvious preoccupation, and Porthos had to suppress his own laughter; Constance hardly looked to be in the mood to share their amusement.

A moment later, Athos, perhaps alerted by their voices, appeared in the doorway and regarded their visitor with wary curiosity.

“Who are you?”

The young man straightened when he realised he was being addressed by the master of the house, but he was otherwise unfazed, his purpose returning tenfold.

“I am d’Artagnan, of Lupiac in Gascony,” he announced formally. “I am travelling to Paris to join the King’s Musketeers.” Athos gave a slight nod, accepting this somewhat outlandish revelation despite the boy’s dishevelled appearance and obvious inexperience. Porthos admired the resolution with which d’Artagnan spoke, as if this was no strange aspiration for a Gascon farm boy. “In Meung I was robbed…by a lady.” A wry twist of his lips hinted at d’Artagnan’s embarrassment at the admission. “I have been following her ever since.”

“And she led you here?” Aramis sounded sceptical; it was far more likely the boy had taken a wrong turn.

“Yes.” D’Artagnan was not to be swayed. “I am certain she came this way.”

“I told ’im there’s only one woman lives here, and that she would never steal from anybody,” Porthos added, trying to be diplomatic rather than suggesting outright that d’Artagnan must be mistaken. “But ’e insisted on seein’ f’r ’imself, just to be sure.”

“And I am certainly no thief,” Constance stated emphatically, fixing d’Artagnan with an unimpressed glare at the aspersion.

D’Artagnan instantly flushed with shame. “Oh, no…I—” he stammered under the weight of Constance’s stern gaze. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you are.” He chewed his lip in bashful contrition. But Constance was already smiling, her features returning to their typical amiable geniality. D’Artagnan grinned his relief, glad not to have fallen foul of his new acquaintance so soon.

“I also mentioned that she’s married,” Porthos added, but neither d’Artagnan nor Constance seemed to hear him.

“This woman you are pursuing.” Athos’s authoritative tone regained d’Artagnan’s attention. “What does she look like?”

“She has dark hair, enchanting eyes, and she…” D’Artagnan faltered, the colour returning to his cheeks. “She is very charming.”

Athos’s expression remained unchanged, but Porthos detected a flicker of unease in his eyes and saw his lips press almost imperceptibly tighter into a grim line.

“Come with me.”

Athos led them to the hall where the portraits hung and stopped before the one of the lady, her blue dress immaculate beneath the gash that concealed her face. With a hand far steadier than Porthos would have expected, Athos pushed the torn flap of canvas back into place to reveal the fine features of the portrait’s subject, her attractive face framed by waves of dark hair. Her beauty was plainly evident, but there was something about her that was cold, heartless; an impression that couldn’t be explained away this time by the impersonal sweep of the artist’s brush.

“Is this the woman you seek?” Athos’s voice was as steady as his hand, but the tense set of his jaw betrayed the emotion concealed behind that stoic exterior.

“Yes!” D’Artagnan tore his wide-eyed gaze away from the painting and looked at each of them in turn, finally settling upon Athos. “Who is she?”

“She is my wife.”

“But that’s not possible,” Aramis said into the stunned silence that followed Athos’s revelation. “She’s dead.”

“It seems not.”

Aramis’s brows knitted together as he slowly shook his head in disbelief. He tried to meet Athos’s eyes in search of an explanation, baffled and concerned in equal measure. When Athos offered nothing more, he added, “You watched her hang.”

Athos dropped his gaze, but not before Porthos saw the flash of anguished memory flicker across his eyes. He released the canvas and the face of the woman he had once loved disappeared once more, hidden beneath the ragged curl of fabric. Porthos knew then without doubt that it had been Athos himself who had damaged the portrait – an act of distraught vandalism that had vanquished her from sight, but not from his mind.

“I watched the cart pulled from beneath her.” Quiet despair crept into Athos’s voice, starkly apparent in the grim silence that had closed in around them. “But, coward that I am, I could not bear to stay and watch…”

Hands clenched into fists at his sides, Porthos wanted nothing more than to go to Athos and wrap him in a secure embrace until the memories faded. But Athos took a steadying breath and continued, a trace of anger lending his words a sharper edge.

“It is not difficult to imagine how she charmed her way out of the noose.”

Aramis looked appalled as he pictured the scene. “I should have been there,” he said with remorse. “I should have known Remy might fall for such a ruse.”

“No.” Athos fixed his friend with a firm gaze. “Do not blame yourself. I should never have underestimated her.”

Aramis looked as if he wanted to argue, but knew to do so would be futile. Instead, he asked, “What do we do now?”

“We wait until she shows her hand,” Athos decided, then added a word of advice. “And stay alert.” D’Artagnan shifted from one foot to the other, obviously preferring a more active approach, but even he thought better of questioning Athos’s judgment and deferred to his greater knowledge of the woman in question.

Athos turned to their visitor, forcing a change of subject, for his own benefit as much as anyone else’s. “D’Artagnan, you must be hungry.” D’Artagnan gave a tentative but keen nod of confirmation. “Perhaps Madame Bonacieux would kindly find you something to eat. Aramis, please prepare a room. D’Artagnan shall be our guest.”

D’Artagnan thanked him in a rush of gratitude, and eagerly returned to the kitchen with Constance. Muttering something to himself about the irrepressible beauty of young love, Aramis headed off to do as he was bid, perfectly happy to have someone else join them at La Fère.

Alone with Porthos, Athos met his gaze and gave a soft sigh.

“I am not going mad.”

“No.” Porthos tried to smile but, like Athos, his relief was tempered by the knowledge that the return of Athos’s wife heralded nothing good.

His gaze returning to the painting, Athos voiced that sentiment a moment later, his voice bleak. “I can’t help but think it would have been better if I _had_ been going mad.”

“No.” The force with which Porthos repeated that single word had Athos looking to him, stunned. “Don’t ever think that.”

And then Porthos did engulf him in a hug, holding him until he relaxed into his arms and Porthos felt his nod of acquiescence as he drew strength from the robust, unwavering reassurance.

* * * *

D’Artagnan joined them for dinner, and Aramis was highly amused by his inability to tear his gaze from Constance for more than a few seconds at a time. Porthos, however, remained distracted by the way Athos only picked at his meal, sitting in silent contemplation as conversation that stayed in safer territory flowed around him. His loss of appetite was understandable given that he had just received confirmation his wife was still alive, but it still tugged at Porthos’s heart to witness just how dispirited it had left him.

Athos, to his credit, tried to eat a little more once he realised he was the subject of his friends’ concern, and when he made to refill his cup with wine for the third time, he allowed Porthos to stay his hand with a gentle touch and reached instead for the flagon of water. Then, making a concerted effort to avoid slipping back into the shadows lurking in his mind, he encouraged their guest to share his story.

D’Artagnan told them how his father was an old friend of the captain of the Musketeers, and that he had written his son a letter of recommendation to help ensure him a place within their ranks. Unfortunately, that letter was amongst the items stolen from him, which explained his detour to La Fère in search of the thief. He was, however, determined to achieve his goal whether or not he reclaimed his letter.

“That sounds a very honourable ambition,” Athos said sincerely after listening in thoughtful silence. “We will do whatever we can to assist with the recovery of your possessions.”

“Thank you.” D’Artagnan’s smile of astonished but heartfelt gratitude was wide and unrestrained as Porthos and Aramis gave their agreement. His passionate energy was impossible to dislike, and Porthos could relate to that single-minded resolve to make something of his life beyond that presented to him as a consequence of his birth.

* * * *

It had become rare for Porthos to sleep in his own designated room, now sharing Athos’s bed more often than not, so when Athos retired that night – a little earlier than usual – Porthos naturally accompanied him upstairs, only to pause in the doorway of the bedroom when Athos dropped heavily to the bed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He seemed to be lost in his thoughts again, unaware even of Porthos’s presence, until he spoke, his voice low, miserable.

“She has haunted me for a year, and now she has returned from the grave to ruin the lives of yet more people.”

“We’ll find a way to deal with her.” Porthos said with inarguable resolve, silently cursing the woman he had never met but hated with such passion. “I promise.”

“Thank you, Porthos, but it is not your battle.”

“It’s as much my battle as it is yours. I already told’ja I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“I do not want you, too, becoming entangled in her web.”

“Too late. I’m here to stay.”

Athos looked up at him and Porthos watched the debate raging behind his eyes. Regret at having let Porthos grow so close to him and his troubles fought with the comfort and support having his solid, dependable presence at his side had provided. There was nothing more Porthos could say; he had already made his pledge to Athos and would uphold it whatever Athos decided.

After several minutes of that uncertain silence, Porthos could bear it no longer. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” Athos’s answer was immediate. “She may still be alive, but she won’t take anything more from me. I want you to stay.”

“Good, because I wasn’t plannin’ on goin’ anywhere.”

Athos smiled, his features slowly shedding their tension as he stood and crossed the room. He pushed the door shut before sliding his arms around Porthos and pulling him close, into a hard kiss that said more than words ever could. Porthos clutched at him, holding him fast as he kissed him back with all his heart.

Athos pushed Porthos gently to the bed and climbed on behind, straddling his hips as Porthos lay back. With the same economy of action, the same elegant precision with which he always moved, Athos undressed them both, Porthos watching, entranced by the quiet passion that blazed in Athos’s eyes as the blood thundered in his veins.

When Athos lowered himself, aligned their bodies, Porthos arched to meet him, wanting – _needing_ – to feel Athos against him, that hot press of bare skin. He dragged Athos down into a kiss as they moved together, flesh sliding against hard flesh as lips and tongues met with eager intensity.

They were in no hurry; there was no race to completion, only the languid enjoyment of building arousal, a fire stoked and slowly spreading. Every touch sent a spark through Porthos and he was aware of nothing save the heat in his belly, the press of the body above him, Athos. Perhaps _he_ was the one in danger of going mad.

If that were the case, so be it.

Athos made a soft sound in his throat, buried his head in the crook of Porthos’s shoulder as he ground his hips forward more firmly, seeking greater friction. A low groan rumbled in Porthos’s chest in response, his own need cresting with the insistent throb of his pulse. He licked a wet stripe across the palm of one hand, thrust it between their bodies, and encased them both within a tight fist that provided the pressure they both so craved.

Moments later, Athos was shaking, pulsing into his hand, his ragged breath gusting over Porthos’s skin as silent, incoherent words were mouthed against his neck, and Porthos released his tenuous hold on the last of his senses, holding Athos to him as his trembling muscles finally gave way.

In the damp, sated tangle of limbs, Porthos found Athos’s hand, laced their fingers together as that welcome madness fluttered away, leaving in its wake a pleasant buzz of shared bliss.

Rolling his head to the side, Porthos found Athos watching him, his eyes shining in the last rays of the setting sun, as open and unguarded as Porthos had ever seen him. Rather than search for suitable words that would doubtless elude him, Porthos smiled and craned his neck to brush a tender kiss to Athos’s temple.

The contented smile that settled upon Athos’s features was the last sight Porthos saw as sleep claimed him.


	10. Chapter 10

D’Artagnan crashed to the ground, eliciting a sympathetic wince from Porthos that quickly devolved into a chuckle at the disgruntled scowl on the young man’s face. The disgusted glare d’Artagnan directed at his sword, lying several feet out of his reach, perfectly expressed his opinion that, with his intention to become a Musketeer, he should at least be the equal of a nobleman in this sport.

“You are good,” Athos said as he extended a hand to help d’Artagnan to his feet. “You just need to stop thinking so much.”

D’Artagnan frowned as he considered the wisdom of that advice, then inclined his head in grudging acceptance of his defeat. As he retrieved his sword, Aramis gave him a conciliatory pat on the shoulder.

“Do not be too hard on yourself,” he said kindly. “No one can beat Athos when he has a sword in his hand.”

Porthos gave a grunt of agreement born of experience. “’E’s right.” Nodding gravely, he had to fight to hold his grin in check.

“Then I shall be the first,” d’Artagnan declared, undeterred, and promptly took up a ready stance, smiling at his opponent. “ _En garde_!”

Athos merely arched an eyebrow at d’Artagnan’s tenacity, then raised his blade once again.

Aware of d’Artagnan’s desire to become a Musketeer, Athos had taken it upon himself to train him in the proper use of a sword, vowing to teach him for as long as d’Artagnan remained with them at La Fère. D’Artagnan possessed a good deal of natural talent – far more than Porthos could claim to boast – and had jumped at the opportunity to learn more once he realised just how skilled Athos was. If that revelation had come as a shock, d’Artagnan only let it serve as motivation to become more proficient himself. And, in the meantime, if his friendship with Constance appeared to be blossoming into something more, the other men pretended not to notice.

The effect the young man’s presence had on Athos was also perceptible. His offer of lessons had given him a purpose, something to focus on, and the melancholy that had threatened to return and plague him anew had all but vanished.

If it happened to give Porthos an excuse to watch him chasing an opponent other than himself around the dining hall with his singular graceful elegance and prescise, fluid movements…well, he had no complaints.

The atmosphere within La Fère lost much of its coiled tension, and it was almost possible to imagine the house as it should be – full of life and laughter – but none of its residents could forget the threat that still hovered over their heads. It was akin to watching clouds gathering on the horizon, not knowing when the storm would break.

True to his word, Athos refused to allow that ominous storm front draw him back into the dark despair he had fought so hard to claw his way out of, or let that skulking menace dictate his emotions. And whether they were locked together in a tight embrace – Porthos buried deep inside Athos – or just enjoying the other’s company around the house, Porthos’s own feelings continued to grow ever stronger. There was a joy within Athos that had almost been ripped away by betrayal and grief, but it had resisted, endured, and to see it sparking back to life once more was a sight to behold. One Porthos was honoured to witness and share.

But they all knew it couldn’t last.

* * * *

Dawn was still more than an hour away when Porthos woke. Blinking in the darkness, he wondered what had caused him to stir so early, listened for a sound and heard nothing but the hushed silence of the night.

Rolling his head to the side, he found himself alone. Perhaps it had been Athos rising that had disturbed his slumber. He looked to the door and saw a thin band of weak light at its edge where it sat slightly ajar. There was no reason to believe anything untoward had happened, but something within his half-awake mind – some kind of innate intuition – roused a feeling of dread that settled in the pit of his stomach and spurred him up onto one elbow.

Immediately he moved he caught the scent of smoke, faint at first, but indisputable. In the next heartbeat, he was out of bed and pulling on his boots. The sharp, acrid scent stung the back of his throat as soon as he opened the door, and now he could hear the soft crackling of the fire, see the way the light filtering up the staircase flickered and flared.

Pausing at Aramis’s door, he thumped on the wood, hard enough to jar the bones in his hand, but he didn’t stop pounding until he heard Aramis’s sleepy voice answer his knock.

“Fire!” The urgency – the fear – in his yell triggered a hasty scuffling within the room, and he knew he had Aramis’s attention. “Get Constance!”

He waited just long enough to see Aramis throw his door open in startled panic before running on to the main staircase. He took the steps at a run, one hand on the bannister for balance, the smoke thickening around him as he descended.

Refusing to think about the last time he had raced through the rooms of La Fère in search of a missing Athos, Porthos ducked into every doorway he passed, hoping for some sign of Athos yet dreading what he might find. In some rooms furniture was burning, in others there were only curls of hazy, drifting smoke, but all were empty. Empty, until he reached the drawing room where he stopped short, the tableau before him stealing his breath with such force his ribs ached.

Athos, lit by the hellish glow of the flames that were licking their way up the drapes, was on his knees in front of a woman identifiable by her mane of dark hair. With one hand she caressed Athos’s jaw almost tenderly as he gazed up at her, and in the other…

She moved, just a subtle shift in her stance, and light glinted from the blade she held pressed to Athos’s throat. How Athos could be sat there so serenely, Porthos couldn’t guess, but it spoke fluently of just how strong a hold this woman still held over the man she had once claimed to love.

“No!”

Porthos heard the cry but only realised it had burst from his own lips when the woman’s head snapped up and she fixed blazing eyes on him. Athos, startled from his trance, looked around too. Upon seeing Porthos, he gave a start of recognition and shrank away from his wife, freed from her spell.

Porthos moved, but she was quicker. Before he had time to cross the room, she had seized a poker from the fireplace and, taking advantage of Athos’s diverted attention, swung it at his head. Porthos heard the crack at it struck the back of his skull and watched in horror as Athos crumpled to the floor.

When Porthos reached Athos’s side he was already stirring. The blow had not been hard enough to do any real damage, but had succeeded in creating the diversion necessary for the woman to make her escape. By the time Athos’s head cleared and his desperate gaze searched the smoke-filled room she was gone.

More concerned with Athos’s health, Porthos only registered her retreat after he was satisfied his injuries were minimal, but instantly regretted having done nothing to prevent her getaway.

“’M sorry,” he growled. “I should’a stopped her.”

Athos dragged his gaze from the empty doorway and met Porthos’s eyes with renewed strength. “Forget her.” He gave Porthos’s arm a tug, indicating that they should worry instead about getting themselves to safety. In full agreement, Porthos rose, one arm securely wrapped around Athos’s waist as together they wove their way through hallways now thick with pungent smoke.

The chill night air hit them with the force of a physical blow, but Porthos gulped it in, clearing his lungs and head with its cleansing purity. Spotting figures standing a short distance away, Porthos dragged Athos toward them, relieved to find Aramis and Constance safe and well.

“Where is d’Artagnan?”

Aramis stared at Athos, horror etched across his face, stricken by the realisation that, while he had ensured Constance reached safety, he had failed to check that d’Artagnan had made it out. They all looked around, hoping to spot the boy nearby, outside and out of harm’s way, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Constance’s startled cry drew Porthos’s attention, and he followed her gaze only to see Athos halfway back to the house, his intentions obvious in his purposeful stride.

“Athos!”

If Athos heard his cry, he paid it no heed. With not even a falter in his step, he disappeared into the darkened doorway, the smoke engulfing him in an instant, an infernal shroud.

Stopped in his pursuit by a hand grasping his arm, Porthos tried to wrench free, spun around in desperate fury when the fingers only tightened their grip. The snarl on his lips vanished when he saw the anxious dread in Aramis’s eyes – a fear mirrored in the knot that twisted in his own gut. It was obvious Aramis was only just resisting the compulsion to dash after his friend himself, but he could recognise the folly in them putting themselves back into danger – something Athos would never condone. Although it pained him to do so, Porthos relented. Together they stood, eyes fixed upon the doorway, as seconds stretched into minutes, each longer than the last. His heart in his throat, his chest constricting painfully, Porthos leant against Aramis, each using the other for support, both quaking with undisguised terror.

His concession to common sense weakening, Porthos was about to break free and run headlong after Athos when the smoke parted and the shadows within that roiling furnace solidified into the shape of a man. With surprisingly steady steps Athos emerged from the pyre his home had become, d’Artagnan a motionless bundle in his arms.

Porthos and Aramis rushed to intercept them before Athos’s strength gave out. Aramis gently took d’Artagnan from Athos and carried him a safe distance from the burning house, to where a distraught Constance watched in barely concealed terror. With Porthos’s aid, Athos staggered after them, managing only a few feet before he sank to his knees, wracked by a fit of raw, dry coughing. His face was smeared with soot, and beneath the layer of grime his skin was deathly pale, but his eyes remained bright, testament to the shaken but immutable spirit within. Porthos held him until he caught his breath. As the coughing gradually subsided, Athos’s gaze sought out d’Artagnan, lying prone on the lawn with Aramis and Constance bent over him.

“Is he—”

Athos’s voice was little more than a hoarse rasp, so Porthos repeated his urgent question to Aramis, just as desperate to know the answer.

“Is the boy alright?”

Aramis didn’t look away from his charge, but gave them an affirmative nod. “He’s alive.” As if corroborate his words, d’Artagnan’s chest heaved in a spluttering cough.

Athos’s eyes drifted shut in relief, and Porthos released the breath he had been holding.

“I wish you’d stop scarin’ me like that.” Porthos spoke softly to Athos, with no real rancour. He could never condemn such a selfless act.

“I’m sorry,” Athos whispered, apologising not for his actions but for leaving Porthos in fear.

“Don’t be,” Porthos said with feeling. “You saved ’im.” He took Athos’s face between his hands and kissed him fiercely. He tasted of soot and smoke, but he was alive.

When Porthos eventually released him, Athos shifted so he could see the house. The orange light of flames danced in every window, smoke pouring from cracked panes in roiling plumes that disappeared in the dark sky.

“’M sorry.” Porthos watched the flickering firelight play over Athos’s profile, felt him shivering despite the heat as La Fère crackled and burned. “There’s nothin’ we c’n do.”

Athos slowly shook his head and Porthos guessed his unspoken thoughts; the house didn’t matter – they we all safe. Porthos wrapped an arm around Athos’s shoulders and Athos leant into him, turning his face from the inferno to bury it instead in Porthos’s neck.

* * * *

The destruction left in the wake of the fire was starkly apparent in the daylight. It had crept its way into every corner of the house with hardly anything left untouched, the furnishings now jumbled in charred disarray. Thankfully, the stables had remained untouched, and everything salvageable had been collected and bundled up on the lawn.

Athos, flanked by his friends in the entrance hall of his ancestral house, cast a solemn look around the remains of the building that had served as the only home and shelter he had ever known.

“It’s completely destroyed.” D’Artagnan’s observation may have been redundant, but it was what they were all thinking. La Fère had been reduced to little more than a burnt shell, completely uninhabitable.

“It doesn’t matter,” Athos intoned, voicing the sentiment Porthos had read on his face as they sat watching the burning house. “I have lost nothing of importance.” His gaze swept the soot-smeared walls and what was left of the interior furnishings. “In fact, I am glad it is gone.”

“But what will you do? Where will you live?”

Athos turned from the sight to look instead at d’Artagnan, the answers to his questions already settled in his mind. “I hear there are plenty of opportunities to be had in Paris.”

D’Artagnan’s response was a bright grin, clearly thrilled at the prospect of gaining companions in his quest. Athos, keen to gauge the feelings of everyone else, looked to each of them in turn.

Constance nodded her approval. While upset at having lost the small measure of freedom afforded her by her position at La Fère, she would happily join her closest friends wherever they went. The smile she shared with d’Artagnan didn’t go unnoticed.

There was no question of Aramis following Athos, for they shared a friendship that had already spanned many years and weathered many tragedies, but he beamed at the prospect of new adventure, already picturing what lay in wait for them in the city. “Sounds perfect to me,” he agreed, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

It was Porthos’s opinion that Athos would value the most, and when he finally turned to him Porthos found himself looking into eyes filled with naked hope. It mattered little to Porthos where they went, so long as he could remain at Athos’s side, and although Athos said nothing more, Porthos knew that was what he was truly asking him.

“Wherever you go, I go.”

Athos’s smile was at odds with their grim surroundings, a sign that he intended to look now to the future. Raising one hand to his chest, he pulled the locket from his neck with one swift tug, the chain snapping easily. For a moment, he let it lay in his palm – the last remaining symbol of a past he was now freed from – then curled his fingers around it, hiding it from sight. With a resolute twist of his wrist, he turned his hand over and opened his fist. The locket fell, landing amongst the charred remains of the house, the silver sparkling, incongruously bright against the blackened rubble.

Consigning that relic to its final resting place, Athos lifted his chin with firm resolve and, with a tilt of his head, gestured to the door. “Gentlemen. Madame.” It was time for them to leave.

Outside once more, they readied the horses and secured their recovered belongings in preparation for the journey ahead. As Aramis and d’Artagnan began to lead the horses off, Athos paused to take one last look at the empty, desolate house.

“Alright?” Porthos asked, a staunch presence at his shoulder.

“Yes.” Athos’s response came readily, without hesitation, and when he met Porthos’s eyes there was no trace of any latent doubt. “Let’s go.”

Warmed by the surge of happiness and affection in his breast, Porthos returned Athos’s smile and took his arm as he turned his back on La Fère.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it!
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has stuck with me through this for your support. It is hardly of novel proportions, but I rarely attempt anything with any kind of scale in case I never find time to complete it, so I've really appreciated all your comments and encouragement and hope it all made some sort of sense - thank you (:
> 
> (And we can sleep sound in the knowledge that if they fail to become Musketeers, they could always open a bakery!)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Courage and the Comte](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11969421) by [ComeHitherAshes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeHitherAshes/pseuds/ComeHitherAshes)




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